


Coquetry and the Culinary Arts

by louisestrange



Category: Glee
Genre: Flirting, Food Kink, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisestrange/pseuds/louisestrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This year, Dave’s goals have changed along with almost every other aspect of his life. After failing to get into his chosen college, he takes a risk and tries something else he never had the guts to do before, leaving sports behind to instead train as a chef at the Culinary Institute of America. But he finds he can’t outrun his past when he meets a familiar face that grows friendlier by the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Garlic

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [La coquetería y las artes culinarias](https://archiveofourown.org/works/789314) by [winter74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter74/pseuds/winter74)



> Pretty much a fluffy friendship-that-will-turn-to relationship fic, with heavy emphasis on flirtation and food porn. Chapters will be fairly short and updates may be sporadic, as my main focus is still on my other WIP ‘Counters’ (this is just my brain’s little holiday from that angsty AU).
> 
> Also, I plan on taking a few liberties in this fic when it comes to locations and the workings of both the CIA and Kurt's internship, so...suspend your disbelief: anything is possible in the world of fanfiction!

Chapter 1: Black Garlic.

He pushes his still empty cart with one hand and pulls his phone out of his pocket with the other to check his grocery list. Everything here looks fresh and amazing, from the dewy salad leaves (situated on a water misting wall that sprays them with fresh water every few minutes to keep them fresh and clean) to the heard-of-but-never-before-seen stacks of daikon and earth-dirty salsify, but still, he's a student on a budget now, and has to stick to what he knows to stock his bare-ass shelves before buying exotic ingredients just so he can make exploratory meals for one.

It's a small dream, but a dream come true nonetheless. He's wanted to shop at Whole Foods ever since he first saw the Top Chef contestants racing around it when he was twelve – it looked nicer than any Wal Mart he'd seen: cleaner, fresher, fancier – not that he would've admitted it back then. He grabs some white onions, celery and garlic, the basics, along with a bunch of purple carrots, some crisp, damp mixed salad leaves and a few oversized bright red bell peppers before piling a couple of handfuls of chestnut mushrooms into a brown paper bag. He dumps them all into his shopping cart and stops to check the items off the list on his phone. Next stop: dried goods.

It's only grocery shopping, but he feels excited nonetheless just to  _be_  here doing it. He knows he won't be able to shop here all the time, but that's okay. At least he's not in Lima anymore; he's not a kid shuffling around Wal Mart with his Mom, he's not that fucked up queer tagging along with his Dad just to get out of the house. He's here because he wants to be, on his own. He's shopping at Whole Foods because he can. And he's doing it in New York  _fucking_  city. He's come a long way, and not just geographically. Given the year he's had, he's not going to let himself feel stupid for enjoying anything about where he is now.

As he attempts to navigate the various stands and stacks of produce with his cart, a hand-written chalk board catches his eye:  _'Visit the dark side...try Black Garlic. With a hint of mellow molasses and sweet garlic tang, it's ideal in sauces, stews and risottos. Bag a bulb!'_ He was planning on making a quick mushroom risotto for dinner anyway; it can't hurt to try something new. He hesitates as he picks up the package, though, pretends to examine the writing on the back before mentally chiding himself for dithering over a two dollar impulse purchase.  _Fuck_ , he thinks and throws the item into his cart with aplomb,  _live a little Karofsky_. He smiles to himself. That's why he's here, after all.

"Is that...black garlic?"

He stills and feels his smile fade. He doesn't turn towards the strangely familiar voice because he  _knows_  it can't be aimed at him. Instead all but buries his nose in his phone to see what's next on the list.

"David?" That voice again, then the feint touch of a soft hand on his forearm and, "Dave. It is you! What are you doing here?"

And there he is. All big, sparkly blue eyes and freckles –  _did he always have freckles?_  – high cheekbones and gravity defying hair. Kurt Hummel, in the flesh. He tells himself the dampness on his palms is just residue from the misted lettuce.

"Uh..." he looks back down at his phone, as if the words he should say might be there on his shopping list. If only there was an app for  _that_ , "Hi, uh, shopping, I guess. You?"

Kurt blinks back at him, lips stretching wider to broaden the smile he was already wearing, as he shifts so the handle of the shopping basket he's holding slides up and into the crook of his elbow. He looks down at his nails, "Oh, y'know, just..." His eyes rise to Dave's again and, for a moment, it looks like there's mischief there, like he wants to say something else but thinks better of it, "shopping, too. What I  _meant_ , though, was what are you doing buying black garlic, in Whole Foods,  _here_  in New York?"

"Oh," he feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment.  _Shopping? In a supermarket? No! Idiot._ "Yeah, uh, I just got here yesterday. I start school on Wednesday."

"That's awesome David!" Kurt's face seems to light up in a way he's never seen before (well, maybe he's seen it  _once_  before, but that time didn't really count) and he's suddenly taken by how much the guy's changed in just six months – seriously, was he always this  _tall_? – he looks like a man, now, instead of a boy. And, damn it, it suits him. "But, this is...I mean, of all the Whole Foods in all the world, right?"

"Right. Totally." Dave agrees, trying to school his features when he realizes he's grinning like the proverbial cat from a certain English county. "So, you're at, like, Julliard now or...?"

"It was supposed to be NYADA, but no. I'm actually not in school at all." Dave feels his eyes narrow at that and he sees Kurt's smile falter for a second, his eyes flicking away from Dave's, down towards his empty basket, as he continues, "I'm working, actually, which is even better. I have a six month internship at  _Vogue_  online."

"Wow," Dave knows shit about clothes, out of the closet or not, but he knows enough about fashion (enough about  _Kurt_ ) to know that's got to be some kind of big deal, which makes him wonder more than a little about the subtle change in Kurt's demeanour, "that's amazing. You, uh, you deserve it."

"What about you? Where are you going to school?"

"The CIA."

"The...you're studying to be a special agent?" Kurt's eyes are back on Dave's, both brows raised in question and his smile returns, quizzical and lopsided in the way that dimples his right cheek. Dave tries and fails not to find it adorable.

"No – god, no – it's the Culinary Institute of America. I, uh, guess I thought I might try to be a chef."

Kurt looks surprised, but not unpleasantly. And  _that's_  a look he's a little sickened to realize he definitely hasn't ever seen on Kurt's face before. "That's...I didn't know you liked to cook."

 _There's a whole lot you don't know about me_ , he thinks with a sudden rush of unwarranted resentment. "Well, I obviously like to eat, so..."

Kurt giggles for a second then seems to realize what Dave might be getting at and stops, lips narrowing to not-quite a frown as he regards him with suddenly sad eyes.

 _Fuck_ , Dave thinks.  _Why would he know anything about you? You've been running away from having any kind of conversation with him for the last seven months._  "I mean, I—"

"What happened to becoming a sports agent?"

Dave shrugs. "What happened to going to NYADA?"

"Good point." Kurt says and follows the words with a little burst of melodic laughter that Dave joins in with even though he's not sure why. They fall into a silence, after that, which grows uncomfortably long; heavy with the weight of their chequered past and the all the things still left unsaid. Just as Dave's is running through options in his head of what he should say to end the awkwardness that won't sound too clichéd (' _Well, maybe I'll see you around!'_ ) or too creepy (' _You look really great, it was really, really great to see you_.'), Kurt shocks even his mind into silence when instead of goodbye he says with a renewed smile, "We should go get coffee."

There's another pause and Dave knows he must be looking at Kurt like he just asked him to blow him right there in the produce aisle. He has no idea how Kurt can still make him feel like this – like he wants to implode with shame and explode with excitement all at the same time – but, fuck it, he does. At least he can handle that feeling now.

At least, he thinks he can.

"Sure, that would be cool. I, uh..." he trails off and thumbs the screen of his phone, still clutched in a too-tight grip, to close the shopping app and look for the new number he never bothered to memorize (or share), "I have a new cell number, so..."

"I figured," Kurt says softly and takes a deep breath before going on, "but, um, there's a Starbucks right across from the parking lot out front if you want to...now?"

Dave knows it's a challenge. A challenge to accept, here and now, after all the times he didn't – couldn't – when they were still back in Lima. He tears his eyes away from his phone, where all the words and numbers on the screen seem jumbled and senseless now, anyway, and looks back at Kurt. He's smiling again, but it's small and tentative and he has a sudden, desperate urge to see it spread, to see those dimples come back and the twinkle return to those striking, more-blue-than-green-today eyes.

 _Shit_.

His palms are still sweating and his heart feels like it might burst out of his chest, but, more than that, his legs feel heavy. Too tired by now from all the running he's already done. "No, that'd be..."  _awesomely terrifying_  "really cool. If you're not busy, or..."

"Not busy." Kurt bites his lower lip, just for a second, and changes his stance, letting the basket handle slip back into his fist. He steps a little closer and drops his voice, like he's about to share a secret. "Although my boss would tell you fashion never takes a day off,  _this_  fashionista definitely needs  _his_  and it would be nice to spend part of it catching up with an old friend."

Kurt's smile widens, brightens, and Dave feels his own lips stretch to match it. He nods.

"Meet you there in...what?" He eyes his wrist, looking at an imaginary watch. "How long do you need to finish your shopping?"

"Just, like, ten minutes? I was just picking up some essentials, so..."

"Oh, and black garlic is an essential?" Kurt raises an eyebrow again and presses his lips together to conceal a budding smirk.

Dave feels his cheeks burn and knows, as he speaks, that they must look as red as the bell peppers in his cart that he's suddenly staring at. "Not exactly, but, well, I guess I have to try new things if I'm gonna be any good at this." He manages to look back at the boy – the  _man_  – in front of him. "Being a chef, I mean."

Kurt nods and starts to back away. "Ten minutes," he says, nodding towards the exit, before lifting his free hand and wiggling his fingers in a little wave as he turns and struts towards the pyramid of citrus fruit on the opposite side of the aisle.

Dave abandons his list, shoves his phone back into the pocket of his jeans and makes a beeline for the register. With only a random assortment or vegetables, he has no idea what he'll have for dinner tonight but, for the first time in what feels like a long while, food is the furthest thing from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	2. Gingerbread Soy Latte

**Chapter 2: Gingerbread Soy Latte**

"Double espresso macchiato, please, and a gingerbread soy latte with an extra shot." Kurt places their order after asking Dave what he's having. "My treat," he adds with a no-nonsense expression.

Dave doesn't argue, still a little too tongue-tied to try.

He'd rushed back to his car to dump his barely-filled shopping bag before heading into the Starbucks where they'd planned to meet. This would be the first time, he realized, that he'd actually be spending any  _real_  time with Kurt under circumstances that were neither nefarious nor grim. He'd sunk low into the driver's seat and taken a few minutes to gather his thoughts and steady his breathing.

After everything, he'd felt a little guilty about how he'd left things with Kurt. While Dave was still in hospital, they'd agreed to keep in touch and he  _wanted_  to; so, so badly. But in the months following his botched suicide attempt, between home-school and therapy and his Mom's weekly calls, even that had felt too hard. He'd responded to Kurt's texts, at first – his offers to visit, to get together – with straightforward, monosyllabic replies –  _Feel fine_.  _No thanks. Not ready. –_ before he'd changed his phone and didn't have to worry anymore; either about the texts becoming less frequent or having to think of ways to evade them when they did.

It's one of many things he has lingering guilt about where Kurt's concerned. Now, though, he  _does_  feel fine. And now he  _is_  ready. This is his fresh start. What better way could there be to begin his future than by fixing something from his past?

He'd waited until he could see Kurt leave the store, polka dot scarf blowing in the light autumnal breeze as he took sure, stretched strides across the parking lot. He looked a little more casual than Dave was used to seeing him; he wore grey skinny jeans and a simple black v-neck sweater, but it made for no less stunning a view.  _Fuck_ , he thought, those  _feelings are definitely still there_. He tried not to stare, to push those feelings away, and instead fiddled with his phone, stalling until Kurt was all the way across the street before following him in.

And here he is now, on the receiving end of another Kurt Hummel smile as they chat like it's the most normal thing in the world. There are a million questions he wants to ask:  _Are you still with Blaine_? has somehow worked its way to the top of the list, though he knows that wouldn't exactly be appropriate. Instead, he decides to start small.

"So, uh, soy milk?" He blurts, and immediately wants to kick himself as it comes out sounding more like an accusation than a query.

"Oh, don't tease. I still do dairy, I've just acquired a taste for this now." Kurt shrugs and grabs a handful of napkins as Dave sighs a breath of relief at the fact he's still smiling. "Needs must: my boss doesn't allow dairy  _anything_  within a fifty foot radius of her office."

"Seriously?"

Kurt nods, his expression turns mock sober. "Too tempting."

Dave shakes his head and grabs his macchiato, waving off the offer of sugar as they head to a table by the window. It's a sunny Sunday afternoon and the warm air around them is filled with the rich aromas of chicory and cinnamon and bitter chocolate. The seating area is fairly quiet, though the counter is busy with customers and Dave still finds himself looking around automatically for judging eyes. He finds none (and knows that now he wouldn't  _really_  care even if he did) but there's still a little tension in his shoulders as they sit down together. Though, that's mostly borne of the memory of when they last did something like this, half a year ago.

"Where's your shopping?"

Kurt asks, suddenly aware that Dave's empty-handed as he stashes a bulging shopping bag underneath his own chair.

"Oh, I left it in my car."

His eyes widen. "You brought you car all the way out here?"

"No, I picked up my new one when we got here on Friday." Dave says, and he knows he's been spoiled a little lately, especially when it comes to the move out here. Some might call it overcompensation, but he knows his Dad's just trying to make sure he's okay, to make things better for him in the only way he knows for sure he can. "My school's upstate, and I couldn't get on-campus accommodation because I applied too late, so...I decided to live in the city and commute."

Kurt cradles the wide mug in his hand and inhales sharply before blowing lightly on the frothy top. "Rather you than me."

Dave shrugs and drags his eyes away from the subtle flare of Kurt's nostrils, the residual moisture on his lips. "I'll mostly take the train. I can park and ride at Poughkeepsie, but my Dad didn't want me to be totally reliant on public transportation." Kurt nods in acknowledgement and he feels like he's rambling but can't seem to stop. "I'm on the waiting list for something on campus next semester anyway, so it won't necessarily be for that long. I only have a three month lease, I can always move if it gets to be too much."

"If I can find a way to stay here when my internship's through, I'll have to move too." Kurt says in a breezy tone that helps put Dave at ease. "My roommate is  _insane_."

"Is it Berry?"

"Ha!" Kurt snorts and shakes his head, "I wish. Rachel was already all set up out here before I knew what was happening, but one of her classmates needed a roommate. She majors in ballet and," he affects a stage-whisper, "let's just say she's more black swan than white."

Dave smiles and nods, like he gets the reference. They each take sips of their respective drinks, but their eyes stay connected.

"So, how d'you wangle a job at Vogue? Isn't that, like, a massive deal?"

He nods and places his coffee on top of a napkin on the table. His gaze follows it. "Oh, a little luck and a  _tremendous_  amount of begging."

Dave can only imagine. From what he knows of Kurt, he approaches everything with a kind of dogged determination that doesn't always take pride or practicality into account. It's the one thing (besides his ass) that he's always admired most about him. But before he finds a way to express that sentiment in words without sounding like a creeper, the moment is gone and Kurt's changing the subject.

"Anyway, it's not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. How about you? When did you decide to become  _Chef_  Karofsky?"

"I guess I always liked to cook, and I loved food, but I just, when I was younger...when I was going through my shit, I guess I was worried that it seemed kind of..."

"Gay?" Kurt asks, taking another sip of his latte, waywardly-wide eyes visible over the upturned rim of his mug.

Dave laughed. " _Girly_ or something."

"Because, of course, you never hear of a  _male_  superchef..." There's no malice in his words, just mild teasing and Dave's grateful for it. It's been so long since anyone approached him without the sound of eggshells cracking under their feet.

"Shit, I  _know_..." He feels the tension in his shoulders loosen and fade, "but you know better than anyone that I wasn't exactly the king of rational thinking when it came to...all that."

Kurt just quirks a small, sideways smile and looks at him like he's still waiting for an answer.

"Anyway, I hadn't allowed myself to think about it for a long time and then, when my Mom left, I was cooking a lot more, and watching all these shows like Top Chef and Masterchef and Hell's Kitchen, and I realized that cooking can be kinda like a sport, y'know? Fast paced, exciting, competitive. It takes discipline. In a kitchen, a crew can talk shit to each other but they  _have_ to work as a team to get the job done and that's just like hockey or football. I...that's something I know I can do. Except, with this, even if it doesn't come out right, you've always got something to show for the work you put in."

Kurt's eyes never leave Dave's face as he speaks and it should be a little unnerving but, more than anything, he's just enjoying being the centre of Kurt's undivided attention. Dave watches with equally rapt interest as Kurt takes another slurp of his latte, pink tongue flicking up to collect a splodge of milky-white foam from his top lip, before he utters softly, "You're always full of surprises."

Dave feels the hot bloom of a blush spread across his cheeks and he wants to say  _something_  in response but his mouth feels parched. He takes another slow sip of his macchiato. It has a smooth, mellow brightness that lingers on his tongue and, though he's used to something more bitter, more intense, this is good, for now.

Kurt seems to catch Dave's blush and something recognizable flashes in his watery-blue eyes as he begins to blink a little too rapidly. "Really David, I...that's...wonderful." His smile makes a slight return, "I'm really glad that you're here."

He's not sure if Kurt means here in this Starbucks, here in New York or just  _here_ , period. Whichever way he means it, though, Dave's glad too.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry there's still no foody goodness! I know this was short (and a little angst crept in, oops!) but I plan on keeping the chapters for this fic short and frequent. We just need a few parts to establish a friendship between these two before the fun can really begin. Please continue to review! I'm blown away by all the reviews/follows/faves so far. Thanks you so much - feel free to keep them coming!
> 
> Also, special thanks to deeniebee28 who has taken on the role as my specialist culinary adviser :)


	3. Bloody Mary

**Chapter 3: Bloody Mary**

"I think you can always tell how good a restaurant is by how well they do the classics."

"Oh yeah?" He replies, eyeing Kurt over the top of the laminated brunch menu. He looks at home here, Dave thinks, dressed in his asymmetrically pin-striped black button-up and red skull and crossbones scarf; like he belongs, among the stylishly eclectic furniture and colourful modern artworks scattered around the simple white walls. Dave loves food; he loves trying new flavors and cuisines. He'd worked his way through a handful cookbooks this past summer; the ones his Mom had left behind, the ones he'd bought at the dollar store. Give him any recipe and he's confident, now, that he can try it, taste it, tweak it and make it his own, but when it comes to dining out, the limited options in Lima coupled with his equally limited explorations, means he still feels like a rube. It's something he plans to change  _significantly_  while living in the city and that plan, he guesses, starts here.

"Definitely." Kurt says with a self-assured smile, laying his menu back on the table. "I'm going for the eggs Benedict with grilled asparagus. And a Mimosa."

"You're drinking?" Dave queries with a puzzled smile. "Before noon?"

"It's  _brunch_ , David. It's allowed," he counters, still smiling, though there's a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks as he straightens the silverware on the table in front of him. "Besides, they probably won't card me here, unlike everywhere else. And it is  _almost_  noon. And I...Rachel and I were supposed to go out for drinks last night, but her current dating dilemma got in the way, so she cancelled..."

"Isn't she engaged to Hudson?"

"Oh, she  _was_ ," he says, matter-of-factly, "but...it's kind of a long and lifetime-movie-esque story. Let's order first, then I can catch you up if you're itching to know the gory details. What are you having?"

Dave shakes his head in bemusement and glances back down at the menu in his hands: it's pretty simple stuff, but it all sounds good. This is, apparently, a great place to eat; a hidden gem of the city and situated just three blocks away from Dave's apartment. At least, according to one of the guys he'd met at school – Jay, a grizzled looking twenty-five year old New York native who, it turned out, used to live in the same neighbourhood and knows the chef-owner here from when they'd cooked together at some long-closed steakhouse in the Village in their teens –  _"Dave, man, you gotta try it. It's right on your doorstep! Classic American Bistro stuff, nothing too fancy, but the foie burger is to D-I-E for, I kid you not. That guy used to wipe the floor with my ass every night when we were on the line, even back then. He's good."_

Dave only hopes now that Jay was right. Kurt's making this whole thing surprisingly easy for him; there's little awkwardness, this time, despite...well,  _everything_  that's gone before, but although he knows this isn't a  _date_  – he knows Kurt has a boyfriend, and he's not going down that route again – part of him still very much wants to impress Kurt, to prove to him that he's not  _that guy_  anymore; meathead bully, uncouth jock. He had made sure to pass by the restaurant on his way home before suggesting it as the venue for their brunch and found it had a clean, modern entryway; a simple sign that read  _Kitschen_ in a burnt orange color above the glass door and, although it was small, the place looked busy, which he guessed was a good sign. A quick Google search on his phone had shown the place had a quirky aesthetic and a menu that sounded tempting enough – not exactly haute cuisine, just modern classics, but he had to start  _somewhere_  – and it wasn't too pricey. Dave was still reeling a little from the fact that Kurt agreed to eat with him at all. Despite the glowing recommendation, it had been worth a little extra research to ensure he didn't make an ass of himself (fuck knows he'd done that enough already) by suggesting some dive.

"I think I'll have the same," he says eventually; it doesn't get much more classic than that but even though it's pretty unadventurous, at least he knows what a good eggs Benny should taste like, "but without the Mimosa."

"Did you bring your car?" Kurt asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"No," he says, not voicing the  _Why?_  he wants to ask, though he's sure it's evident in his tone, "it's still in Poughkeepsie. I got the train back last night."

Kurt glances at the menu for a second before looking back up at him with a smirk, "Then how about a Bloody Mary instead?"

"I don't know..."

"It's really more of a chilled soup than a cocktail." Kurt purses his lips before they curve upwards into a smile. "Think of it as a learning experience for your palate."

Dave presses his lips together to suppress the smile of surrender that tries to escape. He's no stranger to underage drinking, but the idea of sharing a daytime cocktail with Kurt Hummel (at Kurt Hummel's  _insistence_ ) is entirely new. He feels a little thrum of illicit excitement in his chest as he mulls it over. He's not sure he  _should_  mix drinking with any kind of proximity to Kurt; even if that is kind of what led them here in the first place.

"Fine," Kurt says, with a little pout that really has no business looking so  _good_  on him, and leans back in his seat, "make a boy drink alone."

"Okay," Dave laughs and dips his hands beneath the table to wipe suddenly sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans. "I'll take a Bloody Mary."

Kurt nods his approval and they each give their order to the waitress when she approaches. "So," he says, "tell me all about your first week at the CIA. I looked the place up – it sounds pretty impressive."

Dave fights the irrational burn in his cheeks at that and begins to tell Kurt about his week. It had been pretty great, actually. Better, although different, than anticipated, even if he hadn't yet had the chance to don his chef's whites.

He'd been grouped with the other commuter students (of which there were more than expected; a relief in itself as it meant he didn't feel like such an outsider for staying off-campus) and given a guided tour. The building that was now the CIA had only been converted from its origins as a Jesuit seminary in the seventies and, as such, retained its grand deistic features: high domed ceilings and tall stretches of stained glass. It wasn't an environment that Dave found himself instantly comfortable in but, of all things, he wasn't about to let himself be intimidated by a building. He knew he'd soon get used to it.

He tells Kurt about how his week was filled mainly with outlining and planning for the next 38 months, about the celebrity chef demo he'd seen at the  _Recipe for Success_  seminar, and about all the classes he'll be taking this semester: Culinary Math, Food Safety, Introduction to Gastronomy, Product Knowledge, Nutrition and Culinary Fundamentals.

"There's a lot more to becoming a chef than I thought." Kurt says, eyes wide with wonder.

"You and me both," Dave replies with a quiet chuckle, leaning back a little as the waitress returns to set their drinks down on the table.

What Dave doesn't tell him, though, is that as much as he'd enjoyed being at the CIA so far, the highlights of his week were the texts he'd received from Kurt. He was surprised when, on the Tuesday night before he was due to start the next morning, his phone had buzzed with a message:  **Good luck tomorrow, Chef Karofsky :)**  They'd swapped numbers when they wound up their impromptu coffee date – not a  _date_  date, Dave mentally notes – and parted with an awkward little hug, agreeing to do it again soon.

He wasn't sure what he expected from Kurt after that; his own plan was to wait until the following weekend, maybe text with a quick  _Hi_ , an update on school, and take things from there. He wanted to spend more time with Kurt, to get to know him, but was still a little wary that he might be lending his friendship only out of pity and, as much as he  _wanted_  to be friends, he didn't want it that way. That first text had disrupted his plan and, especially after last time, he knew he couldn't  _not_  reply (he didn't  _want_  to not reply) so he'd fired off a quick response saying  **Thanks, I'll need it!** and left it at that.

His phone buzzed again the next day, during his train journey home, with another unexpected text from Kurt: **Hope you had a good first day. I expect to be dazzled by your newfound culinary expertise next time we meet.**

 **First day went well. I'll make sure to take extra notes tomorrow so I don't disappoint,** he'd replied, heartened by the very idea of a  _next time._

 **Excellent. We could discuss them over coffee this Saturday?** Kurt's response was immediate, and Dave had spent a good five minutes just smiling at his phone, making various abandoned attempts at a casual response when another message came in from Kurt.  **And it's your turn to pay this time ;)** With that, Dave couldn't have refused even if he'd wanted to.

The rest of Dave's week passed by in a blur of registrations and inductions. His class was filled with a variety of students: people of all ages, all walks of life and from seemingly all over the country. He'd found himself automatically forming part of a small group of the younger students, who thankfully all seemed more interested in what he was planning to do with his life after school than what he'd done before he got there. Come Friday afternoon, everyone was ready to let off a little steam and he'd tagged along, somewhat hesitantly at first, on a trip to the local bar before reminding himself:  _You're alive, Karofsky – live a little._

He was glad he did; it was the first social event he'd attending since the previous Christmas and it felt good to relax and have a beer with people who held no preconceived notions of who or what he was. And so far he was just Dave, the big kid from Ohio. When and if the time came for him to be Dave, the  _gay_  kid from Ohio, he had a feeling they'd be mostly okay with it. More importantly, he had a feeling  _he'd_  be okay with it, though there was no rush or reason to out himself right away; he knew he wasn't going to hide that part of himself here, no matter what, but he wasn't looking for anyone's approval or attention, either, and baby steps had taken him this far.

He and Kurt had exchanged another few friendly texts throughout the week and it felt good, to know that someone other than his Dad was out there, thinking about him. And he couldn't lie to himself (he was done with that), it felt especially good because it was Kurt. He was halfway through his third beer and on the receiving end of a lecture, alongside Lenny – a kid his own age from Louisiana who'd been working the line since the age of fifteen – from Jay about the importance of the New York restaurant scene – " _You gotta get out there and try everything. Know what's good and what ain't so good, from five dollar dinner specials to the best_ a la carte _you can afford. School can't do it all for you. You have to educate your palate and it's all right there..."_  – when the vibration of his phone in his pocket diverted his attention. It was another message from Kurt:  **Hope you have your notes prepped for tomorrow! When and where?**

Unexpectedly inspired by Jay's words and emboldened by the beer in his bloodstream, he thought to himself  _fuck it_ and typed out his reply:  **How about brunch instead of coffee? I've been told to educate my palate. Need to eat out more. I'll still pay ;)** And made sure to hit  _send_  before he had the chance to change his mind.

He didn't wait long for a response:  **Well**   **I wouldn't want to impede your learning in any way. Brunch sounds good – just tell me where.**

He'd felt a wave of giddy relief flood his system that he hadn't overstepped some invisible boundary **.** He'd downed the remainder of his beer and asked Jay if he could recommend somewhere and that was that. Now he's here, face-to-heartwrenchingly beautiful-face with Kurt again and, this time, he only feels a  _little_  bit terrified.

Dave watches Kurt take a sip of his Mimosa and murmur his approval before running the tip of his tongue across his moistened top lip. Dave swiftly redirects his gaze towards the hi-ball glass in front of him and stirs the leafy celery stick around the viscous red liquid before removing it altogether to take a drink. It smells faintly of garlic and powerfully of tomato, he notices as he lifts it towards his lips. The familiar Tabasco tang delivers a little clearing smack to his sinuses and the flavor is bright and zingy as it hits his tongue, where he lets it linger for a moment before swallowing, enjoying the peppery tingle that builds as the liquid warms in his mouth as well as the not-at-all unpleasant sting that goes with it when it slides languorously down his throat.

Kurt was right; it's almost more soup than cocktail and has certainly woken up his palate. If he didn't know it was laced with vodka it could almost pass for a smoother, spicier gazpacho and he's about to tell Kurt just that (unable to resist an opportunity to show off a  _little_  culinary knowledge) when he looks up and sees that Kurt's watching him, too; smiling, something indecipherably warm in his gaze. He doesn't look away.

"Good?" Kurt asks before he can say anything. Dave's not entirely sure, yet, what constitutes a good Blood Mary but something about that look makes him unsure as to whether or not that's what he's being asked, anyway.

Dave nods his head and returns Kurt's smile. "Really good," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part just grew and grew, so the other half of their brunch 'date' will be along very soon in a chapter of its own. As always, please let me know what you think!


	4. Eggs Benedict

**Chapter 4: Eggs Benedict**

"So," Kurt starts to speak, cutting through the short, strange silence that had settled between them, "school sounds like it'll be a lot of fun."

"Sounds like it'll be a lot of  _work_ ," Dave replies with a little huff of laughter, glancing down towards the table. He's grateful that the oddly intense moment between them seems to have passed, "but it feels good just to have a plan again, y'know? To know where I'm heading. I was kinda worried about getting back into the swing of things after being out of it for so long."

Kurt nods, mesmeric blue-green eyes looking searchingly at Dave's own again as he smiles back at him, small and genuine; the one that dimples his cheek just  _so_. "I'm kind of feeling the opposite of that right now. I'm plan-free for the first time in as long as I can remember, but it's kind of...liberating."

"Aren't you gonna reapply to school next year?" Dave asks, taking another sip of his drink. Kurt still hasn't told him much at all about why he's interning instead of studying, "You wanted to go to NYADA, right?"

"I did. But I'm not sure anymore. I was so caught up in that dream, so single minded about the whole thing that I didn't even have a back-up and not getting in was...a wake-up call. Now that I look back, I think I was just doing what everyone expected of me, y'know?" Kurt frowns and gives Dave a deliberate look; yeah, he understands only  _too_ well what that's like, though it's not something he ever expected to hear from Kurt 'you-can-hate-me-but-it-won't-change-who-I-am' Hummel. "It was Rachel's dream more than mine and I just got swept up in the excitement. Now that I'm on my own, doing something different, I think..." he pauses for a moment, eyes tilting upwards in consideration before he goes on, "I feel like there are lots of options open to me that I was too blind to see before."

Dave nods and his lips form a tremulous smile. He knows what that feels like, too. "What other options are you considering?"

His mouth quirks. "You mean, for school?"

"Yeah."

"NYU, maybe, for journalism. Or even Parsons. That's the school for design that—"

Dave clicks his tongue. "I know what Parsons is."

"You do?"

He shrugs and tongues the inside of his cheek. "I've been known to watch  _Project Runway_. Like, almost every episode."

"Is that so?" Kurt says, leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his cupped hand, eyes newly alight with mischief, "Another revelation from Mr. Karofsky."

"What can I say?" Dave chuckles self-consciously, feeling a flash of heat tingle all the way to the tips of his ears. "I just like to watch people do things that I could never do, I guess." And it doesn't hurt that some of the contestants have been  _hot_ , though he's not ready to tell Kurt that.

"Does this mean I'll be able to come to you for an informed critique on all my latest designs if that's the path I choose?"

"I don't know about that..."

Kurt beams at him and from the other side of the small table and he's struck by just how much that smile transforms his face; by the supple stretch of those lips, the deep indentations that form in his cheeks and how his eyes sparkle even as they scrunch up in delight. If only he'd know earlier in his life what it felt like to be on the receiving end of this kind of look from Kurt Hummel, if he'd spent his time seeking out smiles rather than scowls, maybe things would have been different altogether. He'll bask in it while he can, though; better late than never.

Dave's thankful to be saved from any further probing about his interest in the world of fashion (or  _fashionistas_ ) when the waitress approaches their table with steaming plates of food. "Same again?" she asks, setting the dishes down and motioning towards their emptying drinks.

"Please," Kurt bobs his head in acceptance and Dave, a little more hesitantly, follows suit.

He feels an agreeable buzz from the vodka start to kick in as he drains the remainder of his first Bloody Mary. "I'm glad I don't have any homework to do tonight."

"Sush," Kurt reprimands, still grinning, "I think we both deserve to have a little fun."

Dave can't argue with that.

"And I don't know about you, but as well as being thirsty, I am ravenous," Kurt says, licking his lips ( _fuck_ , but he does that a lot) as he arranges his napkin across his lap, "and this looks amazing."

Dave's eyes stay on Kurt and his stomach does a little flip; he's tempted to agree before he's even looked at his food.

"Ooh, ham hock," Kurt chirps, lifting his knife and fork while examining his plate.

Dave feels his body tense; hearing Kurt say those words jars him from his stupor and brings back a very specific memory that he's not sure he wants floating around in his head right now, for various reasons. "What?"

"They've used chunks of ham hock instead of bacon. Look," Kurt says and forks a piece of the shredded ham out from underneath his sauce-smothered poached egg, holding it aloft for Dave to inspect. His eyes betray no sign of awareness that those two little words still hold a sour significance for Dave.

"Oh," he says, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as he watches the piece of meat disappear into Kurt's mouth, "right. Cool." He knows he has no right to feel defensive, in any case; he called Kurt a lot worse than that in his heyday.

The server returns with their second round of drinks, giving Dave the excuse he needs to finally peel his eyes away from Kurt as he nods his thanks and transfers his focus to his eggs Benedict. He sees that Kurt was right; it does look good. Their matching plates each hold a golden toasted English muffin topped liberally with thick chunks of ham hock off the bone and a plump, round poached egg that's almost cocooned in a thick, creamy-yellow hollandaise. He's not crazy about the unchopped tarragon garnish on top, but the accompanying neatly-piled stack of vivid green, char-marked baby asparagus spears make up for that.

A sated hush befalls their table as they eat, and Dave feels foolishly content to hear Kurt make the occasional little "Mm," sound as he chews. He's sure he must be doing the same; it seems Jay from school was right in his assertion that the chef here knows his stuff. The food tastes even better than it looks; the velvety butter-based sauce is cut through with just the right amount of lemon sharpness so as not to be cloying and the egg is soft-poached to perfection, oozing a runny, sunshine-colored yoke when pierced that coats the smoky-salty-succulent chunks of ham and crisped muffin to create a satisfying trinity of texture in his mouth.

Dave finds himself chewing slowly, wanting this to last, as he looks across the table at Kurt, eyes falling unbidden to the slight bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. He's never watched Kurt eat before; he's never been  _turned on_  by watching someone eat before, but, he realizes, there's something both primal and elegant about it. And, as he studies him gathering another enthusiastic forkful of each component part of the dish, raising it towards his parted lips, he knows it's something he wants to see again. Kurt catches his eye and smiles around his retreating fork before speaking, "I've never had it with ham hock before. It's good, right? And this hollandaise is outstanding."

"Mmm," he agrees and drops his gaze, feeling caught out. He grabs his drink and has a small gulp before taking another bite, enjoying how the pleasant tingle left on his tongue by the Bloody Mary is soothed by the rich creaminess of the sauce. "It's is almost as good as my own version."

"Oh, really?" Kurt asks, eyes bugging a little as they reconnect with Dave's."Is this a Chef Karofsky speciality?"

"Well, more of a Julia Child speciality but my take on it's pretty good," Dave shrugs off his own affirmation. "I practiced my classic sauces all summer. Hollandaise is right up there."

"I  _love_  Julia Child," Kurt proclaims, light dancing in his azure eyes again, "I tried to do her Hollandaise years ago, and Julia's recipes rarely fail me, but I never managed to get it just right. It came out as more of a  _scrambled_  eggs Benedict." He seems to ponder this failure for a second, "I don't think I had the right wrist action."

Never mind the newfound knowledge that Kurt  _cooks_ , Dave almost chokes on a mouthful of gooey egg at the idea of Kurt's wrist action being anything but  _perfect_ under any circumstances. He bites back a sly smile and doesn't dare voice a response.

"I...for whisking," Kurt amends, blushing pink as the realization of what he just said hits him. "Anyway, the pre-made stuff is just—"

Dave interjects, "— _horrible_."

"—an abomination." Kurt finishes and they share a suddenly shy giggle at their unified concurrence.

They eat in silence for another minute after that, a spell of  _almost_ -awkwardness setting in.

"So, uh," Dave stammers a little as dabs his napkin at the crease of his lips, "you like to cook, too?"

"Do I like to cook? Really David, you have so much to learn about me." Kurt says with a good-natured roll of his eyes, and the idea of being invited to learn more about Kurt sends a little thrill through Dave's body. An entirely non-sexual,  _platonic_  thrill, he tries to tell himself. "I'll have you know that I can shirr an egg with the best of them."

This is all new data for Dave.  _You don't really know me_ , Kurt had said to him once before and it hurt at the time, but it was true. Now that he  _is_  getting the chance to know more he just has to try to come to terms with the fact that the reality is actually better than he'd ever dared hope.

"Don't forget," Kurt continues, impaling his last remaining asparagus spear on his fork and swirling it slowly through a puddle of yellow egg-yolk, "it was just me and my dad from when I was eight up until I was 16. As soon as I was tall enough to reach the stove, I had to at least  _try_. All that processed food was starting to wreck havoc on my complexion."

"Sounds familiar." He smiles, too wide, and feels it crease the corners of his eyes. "Maybe if I have to critique your designs you can critique my food while I'm in training."

"Absolutely," Kurt grins and rests his silverware across the now empty dish in front of him, "you should use me as your gastronomic guinea pig. I can offer an educated yet objective view on your technique. Besides, I could really use a good cooked meal every now and again. My roommate is a raw vegan."

" _Fun_." Dave laughs, mind boggling at the very idea.

"It  _is_ ," he agrees with a sardonic smile. "Seriously though, just tell me when you want me." He pauses to bite his lip, then continues in a rush of breath before Dave can speak, "I'm free after eight most nights, and most weekends. I'll have to come to your apartment, though, if that's okay, because my stove only has one working burner and the oven only goes to either fridge or furnace temperature, so..."

"Yeah, no, I'd...love to cook for you," he says, and  _god_ , how he would. Kurt could come over to his place and Dave could show off his skills a little, cook something fancy for them both, maybe even share a bottle of wine, watch a movie...his head is racing with Bloody Mary-fuelled possibilities and Kurt's still smiling at him when their knees knock together under the table. He pulls swiftly back and it's like a switch flicks: reality kicks in and he  _knows_  he's been letting himself get carried away. Again. "But, um," he feels his smile tighten as he gathers his strength, considering what best to say, "we're already having brunch together, I don't think...I mean, after everything, I wouldn't want your boyfriend to think that I'm  _interested_  or anything."

Kurt's brows knit together and his own smile slips. "My...oh,  _oh_ , that's not...I thought..." he closes his eyes and shakes his head, pulling a face Dave can't quite identify, "I broke up...I mean,  _we_ broke up. I thought you knew."

"Oh, I'm sorry?" Dave says, and he knows it comes out as more of a question than a statement of regret, but he wasn't expecting  _that_  at all and, although it's not exactly bad news for him, it's not like it's good news, either. He's not quite sure what to do with the information.

"No, don't be, I'm not..." he looks down at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table, and they both stay silent for a moment as the waitress comes back to collect their empty plates. When she's gone he lifts his gaze back up to met Dave's and heaves a little sigh. Something in his eyes has changed. "It's fine, I broke up with Blaine. A while ago, when he came out to visit just after I got here."

"Was there...I mean, do you wanna talk about or...?"

"No." Kurt says, shaking his head and smiling sadly, and Dave can't think of anything else fitting to say, he guesses break ups are always hard, but he has zero experience and therefore no advice to offer. "It's just...they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I found that absence from  _him_  was just making my heart aware of all the things I thought I'd miss in  _theory_  that I didn't in practice _."_ He shrugs _. "_ We're still friends, or at least...we will be. Maybe...maybe that's all we ever should've been, y'know?"

"Yeah," Dave says, unable to keep the sadness from his voice; he also knows what it's like to have that talk with Kurt, "I know."

Kurt seems to realise that it brings back memories for both of them, of a time he's sure they'd each rather forget. "A year ago, I thought I had it all figured out. And now...everything's different."

Dave lets out a petulant-sounding sigh. "Trust me, I know what you mean."

"Not  _bad_  different, though." Kurt looks at him and smiles that same lopsided smile Dave's seen before and although it's still tinged with sadness, this time there's something else there, too. "Not for either of us, right?"

"Right." Dave says, and he wonders, not for the first time, how Kurt can steal his breath and break his heart and force him to feel better all in one go.

"Still, I could really use a...a good friend right now, David."

"Yeah?" Dave asks, keeping his voice even as he feels another bloom of warmth spread outwards from the ache in his chest. Two Bloody Marys and a dose of unrequited love will have that effect, he guesses.

Kurt nods. "Especially one that's a fellow epicurean."

"Me too," he replies, and it's so true it hurts. His estrangement from his mother, his former friends, his teammates, from the world in general, had given him the chance he needed to get to know himself. But now that he does, he knows, too, that he really doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Their eyes stay connected for a long moment, even as Kurt drains the remainder of his cocktail from its flute. "So," he says, at last, "when can I come over for some culinary critiquing?"


	5. Adventures in Pastry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some of you will know that, since I last updated, my computer crashed and I lost my rough drafts and notes for the next few chapters of this story.
> 
> As such, I'm posting this as a kind of a extra. This part started off as just the beginning of the rewrite of the next chapter but it grew to 2000+ words in itself so I decided to post it on its own. Sorry in advance if the chapter title is a little misleading. Rest assured that the next part will be along in a few days and will see the boys have a bit more interaction.
> 
> Also, in case it isn't clear - Kurt's texts (bold italics)/Dave's texts (bold)
> 
> As always, please review!

 

Texting Kurt is so  _easy_ , Dave thinks as he flops down on his bed and fires off another message –  **See you soon, be prepared to get your hands dirty :)** – and they've been texting a  _lot_ , he realizes with a smile as he scrolls through their previous SMS conversations on his phone.

They'd been texting for a couple of weeks, but  _this_  really only started on Monday, when Kurt had, apparently, remembered that Dave would be in the practice kitchen for the first time and sent:  _ **Remember, no slacking in the kitchen :p**_ The message made him smile, though he definitely hadn't been slacking. He'd spent the morning session in Culinary Fundamentals learning how to  _julienne, batonnet_ and _brunoise_. By lunchtime, when he could reply, he'd sliced and diced so many carrots that his fingertips had turned orange.

**No slacking. Too busy learning knife skills with my new friends julienne and brunoise.**

_**Glad to hear you're making friends. Say hi for me. Julienne and I go way back.** _

On Tuesday, Kurt's first message came during lunch:  _ **Made any more interesting 'friends' today?**_

It seemed like a good idea to reply with a picture of his impeccably plated and as yet untouched slice of dark chocolate torte. Fantastic in-house food was a major perk of being a student at the CIA, and, though he wasn't privy to the dinner service as an off-campus student, he enjoyed taking full advantage of all three proffered courses at lunch. It was a good way, he assured himself, of getting familiar with the dishes he'd likely be cooking in upcoming courses throughout the next couple of years, not to mention a good way of casually socializing with his peers. He snapped a quick photo of the perfectly straight-edged slice of the torte, careful to catch the artful drizzle of vibrant red raspberry coulis that surrounded it on the white plate, as well as the fresh, powdered-sugar dusted raspberry that sat on top of the glossy ganache, and sent it with the message:  **Getting acquainted with this guy right now.**

 _ **I'm jealous! Did you make that?!**_ Came Kurt's immediate response.

 **LOL, no. The most accomplished thing I've made so far is a mirepoix. It's lunchtime. This is our cafeteria food and I'm duty bound to eat it. Sucks to be me** , Dave had replied.

_**Well, in the name of duty, at least try to have fun with your pretty chocolate acquaintance ;)** _

He hadn't expected it to become a regular thing, but on Wednesday, he'd received another lunchtime message from Kurt:  _ **What's on the decadent lunch menu today, oh spoiled student chef?**_

**Mushroom and truffle risotto looks good, peach melba cheesecake looks better. You?**

_**Not fair. My lunch is a cold soy latte whilst running sample shoes back and forth between my office and fifth avenue.** _

**You have to eat. No cheesecake allowed at the Vogue office?**

_**I had a bagel this morning, but sadly neither cheese nor cake is very popular around here. I have no idea why.** _

**Then I'll eat some on your behalf.**

_**Generous. Maybe if someone were to provide more photos of such deliciously unobtainable foodstuffs, I could at least eat with my eyes ;)** _

**I'll pass your number around, see if anyone wants the job :p**

_**You are too kind.** _

And so it continued all week. On Wednesday, he sent Kurt a picture of his peach melba cheesecake ( _ **Looks good. You'll have to introduce us sometime. Just don't tell my boss. Or my roommate**_ ), on Thursday it was a classic and delicious glazed tarte aux fruits ( _ **With all that fruit, it's practically health food, right?**_ ) and, finally, today he'd sent a photo of a whole display stack of vanilla-cream filled profiteroles, oozing with chocolate sauce and garnished liberally with candied almonds and spun sugar ( _ **That is obscene, David. You should have marked it NSFW. If anyone sees that on my phone, my reputation will be in tatters**_ ).

Luckily for Dave, the novelty of having such a grandiose lunch every day had yet to wear off for the majority of the other freshmen, too, who could often be seen snapping pictures of their food for various blogs and social media exploits, so he didn't look like a complete weirdo for taking photos of his desserts. It was awesome to be surrounded every day by people who shared his enthusiasm for food, but it felt great to have someone on the  _outside_  to share it with too. When he texted Kurt a picture of a skilfully constructed dessert or to brag that his chef instructor had complimented him on his  _chiffonade_ , he somehow didn't feel as awkward or silly as he would have in person. He didn't have to play  _cool_  with Kurt. He could make lame jokes and get overly enthused about a new technique safe in the knowledge that if Kurt mocked him it was nothing but good natured. It made him realize, with a strangely buoyant kind of melancholia, that Kurt was well on his way to becoming the first  _real_  friend Dave had ever had. He was getting along with some of the guys in class, for sure, but Kurt was the one person in the world who knew  _Karofsky_  before and had actually stuck around to see  _Dave_  emerge after. It seemed oddly fitting, after everything: Kurt had been his first crush, the first person he inadvertently came out to, his first real kiss, his first...well, Kurt had always encouraged him – whether he welcomed it or not – to feel more like himself and, and after so many years of pretending to be someone else, that was a  _really_  good feeling.

As the week progressed, their texts were increasingly frequent and ever more friendly, extending to more random thoughts and comments ( _ **OMG, I just learned how to unhook a bra with one hand. My dad would be so proud if he didn't already know it's a skill I'll never put to full use)**_  as well their lunchtime culinary exchanges and  _ **How was your day?**_  check-in messages. They sometimes even felt a little flirty, though Dave tried not to read anything into that beyond his own wishful thinking. What did he know about flirting anyway? His previous attempts with guys ( _including_  Kurt) had failed beyond miserably and even before that, when he'd tried flirting with girls, it had been crass and overly-macho, designed more to save face with his straight friends, by way of overcompensating, than to actually impress any of the girls. God knows he almost peed his pants whenever any of them responded favorably to his fake-advances.

The chime of Kurt's reply pulls him out of his reverie  _–_ _ **On my way now, and I always come prepared ;)**_ –and Dave grins at his phone despite the flap of butterfly wings he can feel in his stomach. Yeah,  _texting_  is easy. Being Kurt's  _friend_  via text is easy. Even the maybe-but-probably-not  _flirting_  by text with Kurt is easy. He doesn't have to worry that he's  _staring_  or that he's  _blushing_  or that he'll trip over his words or say the wrong thing. Texting allows him to gather his thoughts and check his words. It gives him Kurt at a safe distance; the  _essence_  of the boy he's been crushing on for the last three years without the distraction of big blue eyes or ever-so-soft-looking lips (and  _fuck_ , he almost wishes that he didn't remember that they  _feel_  as soft as they look) or even that delightfully distinctive voice.

Not that he doesn't  _like_  that whole package, he muses, rising from his bed to unpack his bag. He likes it a little too much. And now he knows that whole package is currently making its way towards his apartment, the nerves that have been pleasantly absent for the past week are kicking back in, because actually  _talking_  to Kurt, and  _seeing_  him while he does just that, is always a little hard. And having him right here in his personal space will be harder still because, despite their rapidly blossoming friendship, it's still  _Kurt_  and he knows in his pathetically wounded heart that, with Kurt, he'll always want more than just friendship.

He lays his books beside his folded whites on top of his dresser and leaves his knife roll on his bed. He's got time for a quick shower before Kurt gets here. He knows Kurt's coming straight from work too, but although he wasn't in the practice kitchen at all today, he still feels sticky from the commute home, and definitely wants to get out of his stuffy business-casual school attire. He showers with purpose, not letting his fingers or his thoughts linger while he's under the spray, and pads towards his closet, rifling through some of his nicer shirts before settling for some clean jeans and a plain black polo. It may be Friday night, but they're just two friends hanging out, he reminds himself. There's no need to go crazy.

He sucks in a deep calming breath when the hum of the buzzer sounds.

"Hey," he greets casually as he holds down the enter button on the ancient intercom system.

"Hi, it's Kurt," comes the lilting reply ( _like it would be anyone else_ ), crackling with static that Dave's sure he can  _feel_.

"Come on up, right hand door on the third floor."

He gives his place one last look over as he heads towards the front door. It's small and plainly decorated, a typical rental: barely more than a studio, really, with a boxy kitchen and living room combo situated beside a small bedroom and bathroom, but it's clean and tidy and, at least for now, it's his. He's left some of the ingredients they'll be using to make dinner out on the kitchen counter and had offered to prep for their dinner in advance, before Kurt got there, but had been told in no uncertain terms that if Kurt was coming over on a school night then he at least wanted to help in the kitchen, so he'd waited. He couldn't say that the idea of cooking alongside Kurt wasn't appealing.

Dave reaches the the small square of hallway and waits by the open door, his heartbeat speeding up, seemingly to match the soft shuffle of swift footsteps travelling ever closer.

"Good evening," Kurt says with a bright smile as he reaches the stop of the steps, a small brown box dangling from the fingertips of his left hand.

"Hey," is all Dave can manage as he steps aside and motions for him enter, wondering if he'll ever get used to that smile being intentionally directed at him.

"Thanks again for switching to tonight," he chatters as Dave closes the door behind him, willing himself to relax, "I could really do without racing around the city again tomorrow, but it seems that no one can orchestrate a time-sensitive shopping trip quite like I can."

Dave can't lie: he automatically assumed that he was being blown off when Kurt first told him Rachel's dads were visiting from Lima this weekend and that he'd been roped into playing co-tourguide ( _ **The things I'll do for free tickets to a Broadway show**_ , his text had read and Dave had felt a little guilty for mentally exploring the possibilities attached to that statement), but soon realized that wasn't the case when Kurt suggested he come over on Friday or Sunday night instead.

"It's no problem," he replies, turning back to face Kurt and reaching for the box that's now being held out towards him. If he feels a tingle as their fingers brush when he takes hold of the raffia string bow, he's sure it's just static electricity. He clears his throat, "I wanna hit the gym tomorrow anyway, and I have a ton of homework to do. I never realized there'd be so many essays to do as part of a culinary degree."

"You have to be able to read and write. How else will you cash in on all those cook book deals when you're famous?"

"Good point," he nods and holds the box aloft. "What's this?"

"That," Kurt says with a barely concealed smile as he unbuckles the belt on his vaguely military-style jacket, "is a just a little friend of mine. His name is limoncello tiramisu and he is  _delicious_."

Dave grins at the callback to their textual exchange and leads the way towards the kitchen where he lays the box down on the counter. He drinks in the sight of Kurt as he removes the jacket completely. He looks like he just stepped out of the  _pages_  of a fashion magazine, never mind just coming from working at the office of one: not that Dave expected anything less. Kurt has always been striking, but he's a far cry from the effete kid Dave had first noticed; all soft angles and hard lines. He's dressed in straight-legged charcoal grey pants, the fabric of which has a subtle sheen that accentuates the long lines of his legs, accessorized with thin black multi-buckled belt that hugs his narrow hips. Tucked neatly into his pants is a slim fitting black dress shirt with intricate iridescent stitching around the collar and cuffs, fastened at the neck with a black silk tie, embroidered with a contrasting silver-grey lace-pattern that completes what Dave's been told is his  _fashion professional_  look. "Um, you really didn't have to bring anything," he says when he remembers to speak. "But thanks."

"Oh, it's not for sharing," Kurt states seriously, draping his jacket over his folded arms. "After teasing me with all of those pictures and descriptions of your adventures in pastry this week, I thought I'd bring  _this_  along tonight and make you suffer while I enjoy it all by myself." Dave feels his lips curve upwards into a smile and Kurt's quirk to match it, eyes sparkling with wicked humor, as he goes on, "I'll  _describe_  it to you, of course, and you can enjoy  _looking_  at it, but I'm afraid it's not for you."

He can't help but laugh. It's like some kind of twisted metaphor for their relationship; though Dave knows Kurt probably has no idea how much he enjoys just being allowed to look. "Seems fair," he manages to say without swallowing his tongue, "but don't expect me to give you a fork if you're not planning to share."

"That's fine, I don't need one," He smirks and lets his shoulders rise and fall in affected indifference as he hugs his jacket to his chest, "I did tell you I was prepared to get my hands dirty."

Dave can't think of a single appropriate response to that. Texting is  _definitely_  easier.


	6. Greek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story is an unashamed self indulgence for me, so I'm thrilled to pieces that so many of you seem to be enjoying it! Thanks for the reviews and alerts and tumblr love so far. This is the first part of what is now a two part chapter, as it was 6,000 words and still growing. I keep saying that I want each chapter of this fic to be fairly short and sharp, but the Kurt and Dave that live in my mind have other ideas, and I'm afraid I'm entirely at their mercy.

Kurt Hummel is in his bedroom.

Okay, so Dave can't actually  _see_  him from where he's still standing at the kitchen counter, trying not to hyperventilate, but he knows he's there, laying his jacket and his bag on Dave's bed as if this is all perfectly normal...although, he supposes it is, now, or at least that it should be. It  _will_  be.

"Hey, is this your chef's outfit?" Kurt yells from beyond the door, his head poking out after he speaks with a questioning smile on his face.

Dave collects himself and moves across the small space of the hallway to his room, where Kurt now has his head titled, eyeing the spines on a stack of culinary text books piled on top of his dresser. "Those are my whites, yeah."

"Mind if I look?" Kurt asks, straightening up again and nodding his head in the direction of the neatly folded uniform.

"Uh, no," Dave chuckles, a little bemused by the request and feeling not exactly uncomfortable but slightly  _peculiar_  at the idea of Kurt touching his clothing, "but they're not exactly haute couture..."

"Humor me. Clothes are my thing."

Dave lets out a little nervous laugh and shrugs his shoulders, gesturing towards the dresser for Kurt to go ahead. He wouldn't care if it were anyone else, really, but because it's Kurt, and  _because_  clothes are Kurt's thing, it seems strangely intimate.

"Besides," he says as he turns and runs nimble fingers across the embroidery of the CIA logo on the breast of the chef's jacket, "I'm sure they look fine and almost anything can be elevated with a just little tweaking."

"I don't think tweaking is allowed."

"Shame," Kurt says with a rueful smile as he rubs the houndstooth fabric of the black and white harlequin pants gently between his thumb and forefinger without unfolding them, "I'd actually wear these pants if they were only a little more fitting."

Dave quickly slaps away the suggestion of Kurt  _getting into his pants_ and offers, "Chef chic?"

Kurt beams at him, tone light, "You never know what the next big trend could be. And I have influence, you know."

"How about this?" Dave steps forward and reaches down into his backpack beside the chest of drawers, pulling out the flattened toque that makes up part of his uniform. He thinks Kurt will probably get a kick out of making fun of his stupid chef's hat and, besides, it'll be a good distraction.

Kurt's eyes light up at the sight of the toque as Dave puffs it up and hands it to him. "You actually have to wear this in class?"

"In the kitchen, yeah. It looks pretty stupid, but..."

"David, if you can rock a red beret then I'm pretty sure you can pull this off."

He blushes at the memory of his McKinley bullywhips uniform. He hardly thought he rocked that look, and he didn't exactly have a choice but to wear it at the time, though he guesses he  _has_  always been drawn to costumes, disguises to hide behind: boy scout's toggle, letterman jacket, hockey mask, bullywhip's beret, chef's jacket. Hell, he had even dressed up when he tried to... _no_ , he thinks,  _not going there_. Each set of clothes had served their own purpose and helped him in some small way at the time. He doesn't regret any of them, now. Especially not the shiny bullywhips jacket and beret combo. It was, in its own way, the start of something good; the start of  _this_..

"Care to demonstrate?" Kurt's voice brings him back to the moment.

"Uh, seriously?" Dave queries with a near groan and Kurt smiles, bobbing his head in affirmation. Dave sighs in defeat. "Okay. But only if you try it on first."

"Fine. But you should know I never need much persuasion to try on a frivolous hat," Kurt peers suspiciously inside the wide rim before carefully sliding it over his perfectly-styled hair, raising his hands to frame his face in a mockery of a pose, "and this is the only one I've seen a while that's actually tall enough to contain my hair."

It's the cutest thing Dave's ever seen, and weirdly, unexpectedly sexy, but that's somewhere else he's not willing to let his mind go tonight. Especially not with Kurt standing right by the foot of his bed.

Kurt tugs off the toque with a smirk, smoothing a floppy lock of hair back up and into place, before wielding the hat at Dave. "Your turn."

Dave pulls it on like he was shown how, titling it forward then sliding it back to catch his hair. He finds himself looking anywhere but at Kurt, "There, happy?"

"Chef chic suits you," he says, and it doesn't even sound like he's being sarcastic.

"Yeah, well," Dave removes the hat with a roll of his eyes before concentrating on reflattening the starched paper between his palms, "it suits you better."

"Good to know," Dave hears as he bends, turning away from Kurt, to slide the hat back into his bag.

Kurt's smiling fondly at him when he stands and he feels suddenly warm and discomfited under his assiduous gaze.

"So," he clears his throat, "you ready learn how to cook some Greek food?"

"Sure, do you want to change into your jacket first, or...?"

"No. I'm fine like this," he says, "I know I joked about getting your hands dirty, but it's not gonna get  _that_  messy."

"Well, okay, but I brought a little something anyway."

Dave feels his eyes widen and his brows lift in silent query.

"What? This is an expensive shirt and, as I said, I always come prepared." Kurt picks up his messenger bag and produces a neat square of cloth, which he gently unfolds to reveal a kitchen apron, stylishly emblazoned with monochromatic images of the Eiffel Tower.

"Uh, does that say ' _gay Paris'_?"

"Yes, but it's designer. And it was a gift," he defends, unnecessarily, and his smile fades, "I know, it's kind of  _girly_ , but I just like to stay clean, and I guess if the stiletto fits..." he goes on, not quite looking at Dave, as he loops the apron over his neck and starts to wrap the string around his waist.

Something about the way he says it irks Dave; like it's a given that he's trying to insult him when all he was doing was  _trying_  to show an interest. Dave's gotten to know Kurt better in the last two weeks than he ever managed back in Lima, and there's something about his brand of self deprecating humour that smacks of subtle insecurities Dave guesses he must have been too blinded by his own to ever see before.

Fuck knows he's already spent enough time in his life trying to make Kurt feel bad just for being himself. He  _has_  to know that he would never purposely do that again.

He frowns. "It's not...you're not girly."

"Oh no? Tell that to everyone who's ever called me  _lady_ ," Kurt pauses, hands stilling on the knot of the apron, and looks pointedly at Dave, his lips quirking ever so slightly. "Closet-case Karofsky included."

"Yeah, well, we both know that guy was a douche," Kurt nods in agreement and looks down to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt. The sly smile curving his lips upwards encourages Dave to go on, "But you  _were_  a little bit more lady-like back in high school. Now you're just, like...handsome, or something."

Dave feels heat spread across his cheeks as soon as he says the word. He knows gay guys can probably complement each other in a way most straight guys might not be comfortable with, but he's still not sure how comfortable  _he_ is with it, or given their history, how comfortable Kurt will be. He bites his tongue and doesn't dare move.

"Huh," Kurt huffs without looking up and continues to roll up his sleeves, "I don't think anyone has ever used  _handsome_  as an adjective to describe me before."

His tone is dry and even; Dave watches him look intently at the fabric he's neatly folding around a lightly freckled forearm.

"I...I didn't mean it as an  _insult_ , I mean, I was just—"

"I didn't take it as an  _insult,_ David," he says and there's a subtle pink hue to his cheeks that wasn't there before as he looks up, blinking back at him. "Quite the opposite. Thank you."

"You're...welcome," Dave mutters and looks away, picking up the kniferoll he'd discarded on his bed earlier. He feels a little flustered but mostly relieved that the moment seems to have passed when he watches Kurt turn towards the door.

"So are you, you know," he says without looking back.

"What, welcome? For what?"

"No,  _handsome_ , silly," Kurt corrects, this time throwing a winning smile back over his shoulder before turning and swanning towards the kitchen. "Now. What are we doing?"

Dave follows him out but doesn't say anything just yet. He only wishes he knew.

~o~

"So, you've never cooked anything like this before?"

"I've made meatballs before, but the Italian kind, nothing Greek, or with  _seeds_ ," said Kurt, all the while diligently grating a cucumber, "baking is more my thing, generally, but I'm always keen to add another string to my culinary bow."

Dave's toasting cumin and coriander and fennel seeds in a hot, dry pan on the stove to add to ground lamb while Kurt gets started on making the tzatziki. The point of Kurt's visit had shifted slightly from its original purpose: Dave was supposed to be testing out new dishes on Kurt, and what he'd wanted to do was a classic French boeuf bourguignon that would impress upon Kurt his serious chef potential. In just a few hours on a Friday night, however, he didn't have time to make a demi-glace or let the dish simmer for hours, to tenderize the meat and let the flavors fully develop and intensify. Still, he hoped there'd be a next time for that. Instead, he was showing Kurt something new. He'd sent him a few suggestions; spiced lamb koftas with Greek meze, smoked haddock risotto or Thai beef salad. Dave knew they could all be cooked pretty quickly and counted on to taste great, even if they weren't all quite at the level of sophistication Dave soon hoped to reach.

Kurt had chosen Greek: _ **Something new would be good. I don't think I've ever tried Greek food before,**_ he had texted at first, and then,  _ **No, I have. Greek salad. That counts, right? ;)**_ Dave had replied that no, it didn't really count, but that he thought he'd like it, though in truth, Dave had no idea whether Kurt would like it or not. All he knew was that he did seem open minded when it came to food, and at least it would be something a little different, if a bit unrefined; he knew it would be flavorsome and fairly healthy, and he'd made it at least a handful of times for him and his dad, so he  _hoped_  that Kurt would like the mini-meze selection he had planned. He liked the idea that they could select and nibble, mix and match. He didn't want Kurt to feel obligated to eat a whole plate of food if he didn't like it. This way, there'd at least be a salad he could eat, even if only to be polite.

"Where's the recipe for this, I can just follow that to let you concentrate on what you're doing," Kurt says, peering at the pan as Dave gives it a little shake, nostrils flaring conspicuously to inhale the fragrance of the toasting spices.

"I don't have one."

"Then how do you know what you're doing is right?"

Dave laughs. "Kurt, how do you know what you're  _wearing_  is right?"

His brow creases though his smile remains as he looks quizzically back at Dave, "I have a good eye."

"Well, I have a good tongue," he stutters a little, "uh, I mean, palate. A good palate. I just...try things out and see what works."

Kurt eyes him suspiciously. "And that works for you?"

"Most of the time," Dave laughs and removes the pan from the heat, pouring the toasted seeds into the mortar he'd placed by the stove, "but don't worry, I've made this before and it's always turned out edible."

"I'd never attempt making a soufflé without a recipe," Kurt muses.

"Yeah, well, this isn't quite that technical. And anyway, there is a recipe, but for now it's all in here," he says with a self-conscious smile, tapping at his temple before turning back to the countertop.

"Well then, I trust that I'm in capable hands," Kurt replies as he watches Dave start to bash and grind the seeds with the pestle. "What do you want me to do next?"

"How are your knife skills?"

"Um, at least adequate, I'd say."

"Are you okay with mincing?"

"Really, David?" Kurt asks, pursing his lips and creasing his brow in exaggerated disappointment.

Dave takes a second to catch on, puzzling and ready to apologize, when Kurt cracks up.

"I have had plenty of practice when it comes to mincing."

"Shut up," Dave mutters around a grin, "the garlic's right there. Get to work."

"Yes, chef."

~o~

Dave feels himself gradually relax as they work amiably together on dinner. Although he likes to grumble good-naturedly about the distinct lack of precision in Chef Karofsky's kitchen  _("Just how much lemon is actually in a_ squeeze _, David?"),_  Kurt is an unsurprisingly fast learner and demonstrates a good palate of his own when it comes to tasting for seasoning and spicing.

With the lamb koftas tested and browning gently on the stove, pita bread toasting in the oven, tzatziki done, and the classic Greek and grilled haloumi salads fully prepared, all that's left to make is the hummus.

"I'll talk you through it," Dave tells Kurt as he watches him eye the remaining ingredients set out in a neat row in front of him.

"Put in mixer, press button, right?" he scoffs, pulling the miniature food-processor forward so it's within easy reach, "Besides, I have had hummus before, I think I can manage."

"Okay then, this one's all yours."

They're mere inches apart in the small kitchen; Dave by the stove, watching and turning the lamb meatballs, while Kurt loads his mise en place of soaked chickpeas and garlic and cumin into the blender. Dave's watching with interest as Kurt stills for a second, then reaches for the extra virgin olive oil and starts to pour.

"How much?" He asks, keeping his eyes on the oil as it slowly drizzles into the mix.

Dave can't resist, "I thought you knew how to make this?"

Kurt glares at him, but there's no heat behind and he half-smiles and asks, "Ah, but do  _you_?"

Dave laughs. "That should be enough. And you still need a spoonful of that tahini paste. And that lem—"

"Thank you," Kurt bites, eyes at a haughty half-mast and smile concealed behind feigned annoyance, "In the unlikely even that I need any more help, I'll be sure to  _ask_  for it."

"Fine." Dave concedes, raising his hands in surrender. He has to turn away when he realizes that seeing Kurt even mock-pissed still  _really_  pushes certain buttons in his brain and makes a point of bending to check on the pita bread through the hazy glass door of the oven as Kurt finishes his mix, hitting the button to blend all the ingredients together, the loud whir of the blades drowning out the softly playing music on the shuffling ipod across the room.

Dave stays quiet, just watches, as Kurt fetches a clean teaspoon from the drawer beside him in order to taste the blended hummus, unlocking the lid and digging around amidst the chunky paste, before raising it to his lips and looking thoughtfully at Dave.

"I think it needs a little salt," he says after a beat.

"I'm sure you're right," Dave teases, straight faced, "although I couldn't possibly comment."

Kurt swats at his bicep with the back of his hand and giggles, "Fine. You better taste it. I need an expert opinion, clearly."

Dave smirks and rubs at the would-be sore spot on his arm. "If you're sure..."

Kurt huffs and refills the spoon (without first wiping it, Dave notes, not that he minds; not at  _all_ ), holding it out hummus-first, close to Dave's mouth. He hesitantly parts his lips and lets Kurt gingerly slip the spoon inside.

His vision blurs a little as he watches Kurt watch his mouth, and he quickly rolls the dip around on his tongue and swallows, it's coarse and savory and has a strong garlicky kick, like it should, but Kurt was right, "Uh, yeah, definitely needs some salt. And maybe more lemon juice."

"Oh, okay."

Kurt squeezes more lemon into the mixer, adds a pinch of salt and, looking back at Dave for approval, hits the button.

"Hey—" Dave tries to warn, but it's already too late.

"Shit, shit,  _shit_ , I'm so sorry," Kurt shrieks as he hits the off switch and look penitently towards Dave, belatedly lifting the lid of the mixer. The hummus mixture is thankfully thick enough that there's not too much mess, but the countertop is flecked with grainy globules of the dip, as is Dave's elbow and his cheek. Kurt, he notices, has managed to stay hummus free.

"How did you even do that?"

"I'm so sorry, David. I forgot to put the lid back and—"

Dave chuckles. "No, how did you manage to stay  _clean_?"

"Oh," Kurt bites his lips and shrugs his shoulders, looking down to examine himself, "must be the power of the apron."

Dave grabs a paper towel and wipes himself off as Kurt does the same to the counter.

"You're a messy houseguest, but at least you clean up after yourself," Dave chides gently, throwing the dirty paper towels into the trash. He turns off the heat on the stove and starts placing the koftas onto a fresh paper towel, "you ready to eat what's left?"

"Yes," Kurt smiles ruefully at him, "although...you missed a spot."

Dave lets out a little self-conscious huff of laughter and squints in an attempt to see where and Kurt gestures timidly towards the corner of his mouth. His hands are still full, so he darts out his tongue to collect the residual mess. He can see Kurt still watching him from the corner of his eye, smile fading but not quite gone, and then he's whispering, "Here," and his thumb is there too, right at the corner of Dave's mouth where his searching tongue catches it briefly, just the barest of contact, and Dave feels his breath hitch. Kurt doesn't flinch, though, just pulls his thumb slowly back and looks at it. For one breathless and bewildering second, Dave thinks he might put it to his own lips, that he might lick away the mess...but he doesn't. "That's better," he says as he wipes his thumb on his apron instead and looks back up at Dave, "all clean and handsome again."


	7. Greek food (and Platonic friendship)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part! And sorry it's later than planned. Thank you so much for the reviews, etc. so far - I still can't believe this fic has been so warmly received. I hope you continue to enjoy it. As always, please let me know what you think by leaving a review :)
> 
> I'll also be posting some foody photosets on my tumblr to go along with each chapter of this fic, if you're so inclined (same user name over there; posts will be tagged CATCA).

 

They sit on opposite sides of the small, square IKEA table that acts as a separator between the living room and kitchen areas, an island in itself in the small mass of the room, which is fitting; Dave suddenly feels all at sea.

They're quiet as they each begin to fill their plates, an air of affable awkwardness lingering after...whatever the hell had just happened between them.

Dave keeps his head bowed, eyes firmly on the food in front of him as he fills a warm, sliced pita with salad and spicy lamb, trying to steady his heartbeat and push away the previously exiled  _possibilities_  that are trying to eke their way back into his mind.

It felt like  _more_ ; whatever it was. Like too much for just friends and not quite enough for something else, but he knows better than to expect that, this time. Doesn't he?

"This all looks and smells delicious," Kurt says a little too brightly at first, then his tone drops, "but I'm...waiting to see what you do."

Dave's hand stills on the bowl of tzatziki and he worries a little at the skin on the inside of his cheek before looking up, brows drawn down in uncertainty.

"I don't want to make some kind of horrible faux pas by doing the wrong thing," Kurt continues, grimacing slightly, before a smile teases his lips back up towards rosy cheeks, "I mean, do I use hummus  _and_  tzaziki, should I even use a knife and fork or...?"

Dave lets himself smile back, lets himself  _breathe_ , as he nods his head slowly in understanding and feels his newfound nerves begin to unwind. So his synapses temporarily overloaded when he inadvertently licked Kurt's thumb; that was only to be expected, but, just like that, things feel  _normal_  again. Or at least as normal as they ever do when Kurt's within close range, which is precisely why texting him is so much simpler than this, though, he has to admit, not nearly as exhilarating.

"This is...kind of new for me, David."

Dave laughs and shakes a stray, unsolicited thought from his mind. "Yeah, well, just do whatever feels right," he says, looking away from Kurt's all-consuming gaze to spoon some herb-flecked tzatziki into the small space left in his pita pocket, "if there are any rules about eating this stuff, I sure don't know what they are."

"Okay," Kurt says, reaching for the bowl still in Dave's hand, "in that case, I guess I'll just try a little of everything."

Dave bobs his head in approval and continues to reason with himself as watches Kurt mimic his actions – layering first a little tomato and onion and feta on his bread before adding a slice of haloumi and two small kotfas, drizzling it all with tzatziki and spooning some hummus onto his plate to use as a dip –  _Kurt was just being friendly, dumbass_. That's just what he does. He was probably being nice, maybe even mocking him, a little, in the name of lessening his potential embarrassment at having dip all over his face. He remembers watching Kurt with his friends back at McKinley – with Rachel Berry and that Jones girl – how he'd walk arm in arm with them, flatter them with praise about their hair or their shoes or their vocal capacity. He guesses however much he might want something  _else_  to be true, that what's happening between them now is no different than that. They are  _friends_ , after all. It's all strictly platonic and, yeah, that seems fitting to Dave, too: eating his own rough take on Greek food whilst trying to embrace his own crude version of Grecian platonic love.

 _And anyway,_ Dave reminds himself, as he watches Kurt hold the pita in both hands and take a sizeable bite, his eyes down, jaw working and tongue sweeping briefly over lush lips _, he was only returning a compliment that_ you _gave him first._

"'S good," Kurt says, muffled around the mouthful.

Dave smiles around his own bite and savours the creamy coolness of the minted-yogurt sauce, relishing how it complements the crunch of red onion and cucumber and counteracts the rich, almost-fatty flavor of the meat. He chews slowly, making the most of the temporary silence that lets him get his mind back to where it needs to be.

Not that Kurt is making it easy for him. He's producing those little sated sounds again; the ones he made when they ate brunch together, the ones he hopes will soon grow familiar. It's not that he's a  _noisy_  eater, by any means; the small sounds are more...appreciative, barely audible  _hmms_  and  _ahs_  of quiet satisfaction, but they make Dave's mind wander to areas that are strictly off limits.

Kurt's eyes sparkle in the muted light as he looks at Dave and dons a smug little smile, "The hummus is especially good."

"You think?" Dave challenges slyly as he dunks a corner of pita bread solicitously into the dip. "I'm not so sure. Tastes like it was made by some kind of amateur, or something. It's a little chunky and—"

"Maybe I like it a little chunky," Kurt counters.

Dave feels his cheeks grow absurdly warm at that and he shakes his head as he reaches for another kofta, "No, seriously though, you seemed pretty good in the kitchen...A man of many talents."

"Why thank you," Kurt chirps, "Maybe next time I could show  _you_  something? One of my very  _specific_  and  _measured_  recipes?"

"That'd be good, what's Chef Hummel's speciality?

"I would say my rum chocolate soufflé always goes down particularly well."

That conjures a wisp of memory for Dave: shameful curiosity as he listened to guys in the McKinley locker room talk about the  _little fairy_  wanting to warm his body up so it would  _rise_ , and how those words had created a whole host of mental images he wasn't ready to deal with. He shoves the thought away like he'd tried to then, "I've never actually attempted a soufflé before..."

"What?" Kurt looks incredulous, "Not even Julia's?"

Dave chuckles. He's flipped past Julia Child's soufflé recipe so many times, never quite having the courage to try it out, "Not even Julia's."

"Well, we have to fix that."

"You're probably right," Dave concedes.

"Next week is wide open for me, so I could come over again, if you wanted..." Kurt trails off as he begins to fill another pita pocket, hint of smile accompanying his casual tone.

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

Hush befalls the table again as they continue to eat, and Dave has a funny, fluttery feeling in his chest. He watches with quiet interest as Kurt overstuffs his pita, stray olives and tomatoes escaping over the edge when he bites into it. Dave has to stifle his amusement as dressing dribbles out past his bottom lip and down his chin, a small, almost translucent droplet nestling in the slight indentation there, and Dave instantly considers wiping it away with his own thumb, tit for tat, then imagines putting his mouth there instead, tasting the sauce as an accompaniment to Kurt, the main ingredient.

 _Fuck_.

The hot, familiar flare of arousal he feels snaps him out of his no-good train of thought and, before he can contemplate what else he might like to do with the meandering droplet, Kurt has dabbed it away with his a paper towel, apologizing around the mouthful of food for his lack of composure.

"Oh god, sorry, I'm usually not such a little piggy, I  _swear_ ," he pauses to swallow, and cleans a stripe across his bottom lip with his tongue, "but I didn't realize how  _hungry_  I was, and this is  _so_  good, David, I just want to toss it all in my mouth at once."

Kurt's eyes widen almost comically at his own choice of words as his fingers tangle in his makeshift napkin.

Dave swallows thickly, though his mouth's already empty, and a dozen dirty, filthy thoughts race through his mind. He doesn't dare say anything for the fear of voicing any of them, instead shakes his head in what he hopes is a conciliatory manner, and shoves a forkful of firm, slightly spongy, salty haloumi into his smirking mouth, happy to have it otherwise occupied.

~o~

They stay at the table for dessert, which Kurt insists on plating as Dave sits and watches, quietly content to see Kurt move about his small kitchen with ease, as their conversation carries on.

"No, I mean, I adore  _Wicked_ , obviously, it's a classic, and it's my  _favorite_ , but I've seen it so many times that I could play every part and I  _know_  Rachel will insist on singing along. Loudly. I was kind of hoping they'd want to see  _Once_ ," he spins around and presents two small plates of the limoncello tiramisu he'd brought along, "but I can't really complain about getting a free ticket to anything, so..."

" _Once_  is based on that movie, right?" Dave asks as he eyes the gooey layers on the plate Kurt is sliding towards him.

"Yes, it's based on an Irish movie," Kurt sits and arches an eyebrow. "Have you seen it?"

"No, but I've heard of it. Saw the trailer, I think."

"It's good," Kurt says after a thoughtful pause in which he scoops up a spoonful of tiramisu, "I think you'd like it, actually. It's not a big, brash kind of musical, or a clichéd love story. It's more...real." There's another pause. "We should watch it sometime."

"Yeah, sure. We could," Dave swallows before he's even taken a bite, reminding himself that platonic  _friends_  watch movies together all the time, "we should do that."

Kurt smiles, a little uneven, around his spoon and his eyes look dark, almost dangerous. Dave doesn't remember ever seeing him look at any of his girl-friends quite like that and it makes him feel dizzy. He turns his attention back to the dish in front of him, taking his time to scoop up a little of each constituent layer.

"What do you think?" Kurt asks and Dave blinks slowly back at him, trying to decipher the possibility of hidden meaning in the words. "Did I choose well? I though, with you being such a connoisseur of classic desserts, something a little different would be welcome."

And it is; the mascarpone is rich and heavy on his tongue, not overly sweetened, while the limoncello soaked sponge is tart and syrupy-sweet all the same, soft and unctuous as it melts in his mouth.

"It's really, really good," he smiles and quirks his brow. "I'm glad you decided to share."

"Well, I'm glad you decided to let me borrow your silverware," Kurt jests, brandishing his spoon.

"Well, yeah. I think you've been messy enough tonight."

Kurt has the decency to blush at that, though he rolls his eyes even as his smile widens and he changes the subject, "So, you have your own exciting plans for the rest of the weekend anyway."

"Yeah," Dave huffs, "real exciting."

"You said you're going to a football game, right? With your chef buddies?"

"Yeah, Sunday night, but just on a big screen in some bar," he shrugs. "We're not going to the actual game."

Kurt rests an elbow on the table as he mouths his next spoonful. "Oh, well, I'm sure that'll still be fun. I'll be busy ironing my workwear for the week."

"What about Rachel's dads?"

"Oh, they leave at three on Sunday, so I'll have my life back by then."

Dave suppresses the swell of a smile at the fact Kurt could easily have come over on Sunday instead of tonight, but had instead  _chosen_  to spend his Friday night here, with him. Alongside Kurt's forthcoming friendliness, it bolsters his hope, and he finds himself speaking before he thinks, "You're welcome to come along. Y'know, on Sunday. With me. To football."

"Um, thanks," his eyelashes flutter, "but I'll stick to plan A. No offence, but I think I'd rather iron than watch football in a bar."

"Hey, you  _played_ football!" Dave tries, in his defense.

"You remember that?"

He feels the heat intensify in his cheeks. "You were kinda hard to miss."

Kurt raises his eyebrows t that, "You weren't there, though. In the team."

"No, but I watched. I joined the team, um, right after that, actually," which he knows shouldn't really  _mean_ anything in and of itself, but it all of a sudden feels like some kind of admission and he's glad when Kurt doesn't acknowledge it.

"Well, my football career lasted one game, which we won," he looks smug as he lifts another spoonful of the lemony layered dessert to his lips. "I retired on top."

"Why did you quit?"

"Honestly?" He asks, likes it's an actual question that requires an answer, and Dave nods. Kurt draws his lips together and looks bashfully down at the table between them, "I only joined, with a lot of help from Finn, actually, because I was trying to convince my dad that I was straight."

"Seriously?"

It's Kurt's turn to blush. "Seriously. I came out to him, officially, right after that game."

Dave's a little dumbfounded. In his mind Kurt Hummel had sashayed out of the womb , fearless and fabulous, and had never felt the need to hide his sexuality from anyone.

"Which, I'll remind you,  _single-handedly_  won for the team. And don't look so shocked," Kurt says, and he's glad it's with a grin, though the little pink splotches on his cheeks darken further as he speaks. "You weren't the only gay boy at McKinley who was well acquainted with the inside of a closet. Mine just happened to be fitted with particularly stylish glass doors."

Dave laughs and takes a final bite of his tiramisu. And it's strange, really. What Dave has always so admired and envied about Kurt is his apparent lack of shame or self-consciousness, his seemingly ceaseless refusal to hide away or change who, or what, he is but finding out, now, that Kurt is in fact fallible after all, that he's always had his own struggles and insecurities to deal with, doesn't change that.

He used to think they were so different, the two of them; now he know that isn't the case, he admires him even more.

"So," Kurt begins, and gives the back of his spoon a final lick before placing it gently down on his empty plate, "can I surmise from your invitation that your new friends  _know_?"

"Oh, not...exactly. But I'm not  _not_ telling them. I'm not gonna hide anymore...not from anyone," That wins him his favorite lopsided, cheek-dimpling smile from Kurt, "It just hasn't come up yet, is all."

"And my presence would be a good conversation starter?"

Dave frowns. "No I wasn't thinking of or like that. That's not why—"

"I'm kidding," Kurt assures him. "But, just so you know, if you want me to be there when you tell them, I will be. It's not a problem."

"Thanks..." He's tempted to make some lame joke about two gays being better than one, but he doesn't. He's genuinely touched by the offer of moral support, though he's still not sure he really deserves it.

"How do you think they'll take it, anyway?"

"Okay I think, but," He shrugs his shoulders and smiles when he realizes he actually means what he's about to say, "I don't really care. If they don't like it, screw 'em, right?"

Kurt catches that Dave's using his own words back at him and he smiles, warm and open and sincere, as he tips his water glass towards Dave in a little salute, "Wise words."

~o~

"I had fun tonight," Kurt says and looks up at Dave through his lashes, fist running slow strokes up and down the strap of his messenger bag, as they stand in the open doorway, "thank you for having me."

"Me too," Dave says, "and...any time."

They look at each other; matching expectant expressions on each of their faces and it's there again, that tension that Dave wants to squash by narrowing the gap between them.

"So I was thinking, um, next week's soufflé masterclass..."

"Oh, yeah," Dave nods, trying not to sound too overly-enthusiastic, "just...whenever..."

"Maybe during the week some time? Like, Wednesday, or...?" His eyes flit over Dave's face then away, never quite meeting his eyes. "If you're not too busy, the soufflé won't actually take very long, so we could maybe watch that movie or something, too..."

"Yeah, no, that's..." Dave swallows thickly and draws in a slow breath, "that'd be great."

"Okay," Kurt says in a high, breathy tone that sounds new to Dave, and his smile visibly spreads, even though he flattens his lips, presses them tightly together, to try and hide it, "I guess it's a d—"

The first booming bars of  _'Don't Rain on My Parade'_  start to chime and Kurt jumps, then throws his head back in exasperated laughter, "It's Rachel," he groans as he fishes the phone out of his pocket, "her choice of ringtone." He hits the decline button and scrolls across the screen, rolling his eyes, "She's only calling because I haven't replied to her texts..."

Dave realizes then that he'd been waiting with baited breath for what Kurt was about to say, even though he's sure, he  _hopes_ , he knows. "Sorry, I, uh, I better let you go. I guess you have a big day tomorrow?"

"I..." he sighs, "yes. Yes I do."

"You're sure you'll be okay walking back? I could—"

"It's only four blocks, David, and I have a talent for scaring would-be muggers away with my crazy-ass stare." Kurt narrows his eyes and contorts his features into an unconvincing scowl. It's about as far from threatening as Dave's ever seen, but still. He tries not to laugh too hard as he reaches tentatively towards Kurt for their now-customary goodbye hug.

He feels Kurt's breath ghost lightly over his neck and the lobe of his ear as they embrace and the sensation, coupled with the warm, firm pressure of Kurt's hand on the small of his back, sends a shuddering jolt through his body. It would be so easy to turn the simple gesture into  _more_. He pulls back, hoping that Kurt didn't feel him shiver.

"Text me when you get home," Dave tells him.

"Oh, I will," Kurt pledges, biting down on his bottom lip, eyes twinkling in the light as he turns on his heel to leave.

When he does, Dave's already in bed, trying desperately not to over think things, confused but utterly content with how the night went. It wasn't a date, he's still pretty sure of that (though not as sure as he was at the  _start_  of the night), but if it had been, he's equally sure that it would have passed for a good one, and that alone gives him hope for the future, whatever it might hold. His phone buzzes once, twice, three times where it rests by his pillow, as the texts from Kurt come through in quick succession:

_**Home, safe and sound and only a little traumatized by the sights I saw along the way :o** _

_**Thank you for a lovely evening, btw. Already looking forward to Wednesday :)** _

_**Goodnight David xxx** _

He replies with slightly trembling fingers, the same sentiment, with the same number of unprecedented virtual kisses. And, yeah, he still feels all at sea; but now at least he feels like he's heading in the direction of warm, solid land.


	8. The Rum Chocolate Souffle Delay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry that it's been a while! I'm afraid that this chapter is a little lacking in food-porn, and porn-porn, for that matter, but it moves us a little way towards where we want to be...I hope you enjoy it. Please review!

 

 

Dave is having a good week.

Like, a  _really_  fucking good week. And, although he's still scared to give himself over completely to the strange, giddy feeling of freedom the events of the past few days have afforded him, the sudden vibration in his pocket isn't doing anything to dampen his newfound high-spirits.

He smiles to himself as the buzz continues against his hip; too long and lingering to be just a text. It comes soon after his latest picture message to Kurt, which showed an artful shot of a the most decadent lunch he's had here so far: sausage stuffed quail wrapped in thin, crisped strips of pancetta (perfectly allied in parallel lines across the breast of the small bird; the whole crown browned to mouth-watering perfection) with creamy yellow parmesan polenta, roasted cherry tomatoes on the vine and topped with a delicate, crescent-shaped parmesan crisp. He'd sent it with the text:  **Skipping dessert today so I can give this bad boy my full attention. Just wish I could share ;)**

Still sitting at the dining hall table, empty plate in front of him as he half listens to Jay and Lenny argue about which of them was closer to matching the exact color of Chef's buerre noisette in today's class (not that he's cocky or anything, but Dave's pretty sure his  _own_  brown butter was the best in class today, anyway), he shifts in his seat to pull his phone back out of his pants, grinning to himself before he even sees who's calling. He knows who it is already and, with only a cursory glance to confirm his suspicion, swipes at Kurt's pictureless name on the touchscreen to answer.

"David, you're mean."

He only laughs in response and struggles to coax his mouth into speaking as his mind races with the realization that this is the first time Kurt has actually  _called_  him instead of texting back, which means that this is the first time they've ever  _actually_  talked on the  _actual_  phone. Dave quashes his brain's attempt to remind him of the times he'd  _tried_  to communicate with Kurt by phone in the past and instead concentrates on the fact that Kurt's voice sounds just a little bit deeper than it does in person, ever so slightly husky, and how, coupled with his faux-petulant tone, the sound sends a pleasant ripple of heat down his spine.

"Yeah, well," he says as he clears his suddenly dry throat and discards his napkin, standing to move away from the noisy chatter of the dining hall and the questioning eyes of his classmates. He feels his cheeks begin to glow as Jay winks at him before he turns away from the table and goes on, "you kinda knew that already."

"Hey _!"_  Kurt immediately chides and Dave finds himself cringing at the likely impropriety of his word choice, given their history. As he makes his way through the tall door of the exit, he's grateful that Kurt goes on, tone remaining light, "I have no idea how you stay so— so  _in shape_  when you eat like that every day."

If Dave's cheeks were glowing before they're positively  _burning_  now, and he feels himself involuntarily, inexplicably, sucking in his gut as he leans a shoulder against the soothingly cool red brick exterior wall of the grand hall, "Well, I work out."

"Obviously," Kurt says softly then pauses, sucking in an audible breath before carrying on, "Anyway, I didn't call to talk about  _that_."

"Oh no?"

"No, I have a...proposition," Kurt purrs,  _seriously_ , then pauses again, and this time there's a clicking sound, a muffled curse, and he sighs, "Shit, I'll have to call you right back. It's all hands on deck here for the new layout and, as general dogsbody, I've been left manning the phones all by myself again. Give me two minutes, okay? "

"Oh, okay, yeah, no problem," he mutters in response. He knows Kurt's beyond busy this week and that, really, he shouldn't be making personal calls while he's at work, anyway. The fact that he is, though – and to  _him_ , specifically – keeps the smile on Dave's face, "I can wait."

"Thank you, David," he replies, hushed but warm, before ending the call.

Dave keeps his eyes downcast and locked on the screen of his phone, heedless of the silly smile that's settled across his lips, as he leans his flushed cheek against the cool red brick, content to wait for Kurt for as long as it might take. Although, if his current run of good fortune is anything to go by, he doesn't think he'll have to wait for very long.

The night after his definitely-not-a- _date_ -date with Kurt on Friday had been mainly sleepless; it had been a night of tremulous thought, of tossing and turning (and some more  _vigorous_  tossing, if he's being totally honest), during which he decided he wouldn't allow himself to ruin what he had now (whatever it was) by sinking back into his past habits. He wasn't a scared little boy anymore. He wasn't going to think himself into the ground, and he wasn't going to run away, whatever might happen. His therapist had told him, and he knew, that he had to stop second-guessing himself, and others (namely  _Kurt_ ). He had a whole new life to  _live_  and nothing – not fear of failure, or falling, or getting back up and saying fuck-you to anyone who might dare knock him down – was going to stop him from actually living it. He was living autonomously in of the world's best, brightest cities, he had school, which he loved, some cool new friends and one really fucking awesome  _old_  friend and he was ready to let himself just  _enjoy_  as much as he could without worrying about how long it might last before he fucked something up.

As he lay in the too-bright city darkness of his room, smiling and sleepily self-assured, he decided he felt good. And, after everything, he  _deserved_  to feel good, damnit.

He knew he'd be fine as long as he kept reminding himself of that.

The next day, he held onto his newfound positive mentality as he jogged around the block, grabbed some groceries, powered through a shitload of laundry, read two chapters ahead in his Pro Chef textbook while eating leftover hummus ( _Kurt Hummel's_  leftover hummus, he took pleasure in reminding himself) and continued to exchange texts with Kurt that were friendly and fun and sometimes so fucking  _flirty_  he had to triple read them just to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

Throughout the day, Kurt had provided him with a running commentary on his exploits with Rachel and her family. He learned by text all about how one of Rachel's dad's had developed a penchant for hideous sportswear ( _ **I'm surrounded by golf shoes, David.**_   _ **My expert eye is entirely wasted here. And there are other, more attractive, things I could be looking at right now...x**_ ), how vegan dining wasn't doing it for him ( _ **The silken tofu is delicious, really, but it fails to satisfy my base, carnivorous urges x**_ ) and how, between them, Kurt, Rachel, Leroy and Hiram knew  _every_  word to  _every_  song featured in Wicked and had formed an embarrassing but apparently fun miniature chorus during the entire performance of the show ( _ **Rachel's even speaking along with the non-musical dialogue,**_ Kurt had texted during the interval _ **. The ladies behind us are not as impressed by this as she seems to think they should be**_ ).

His Sunday morning had started with a rare picture message from Kurt (even if it wasn't the kind he would really have  _liked_  while still in bed, suffering from a severe case of morning wood) showing off his breakfast: a gooey stack of blueberry pancakes, drizzled liberally with maple syrup and dressed with yet more fresh, plump blueberries and a spiral of whipped cream. The accompanying text read:  _ **Some payback for chef tease-a-lot :p This time, the pleasure is all mine ;) xxx**_ It had helped get his day off to a delicious start, and as he looked back over their text conversations, he was secretly, stupidly pleased that Kurt had continued to add a virtual kiss or two (or three) to the end of his messages all weekend, just like he'd started to do on Friday night.

On Sunday afternoon, he'd headed back out to Hyde Park to meet Jay at the near-deserted campus gym for an overdue workout. They spotted for each other as they lifted weights and pounded the treadmill side by side, all the while watching Anne Burrell silently slice and sauté on the screen above them, and laughing about the fact that the CIA's on-campus facility must be the only gym in the country (if not the world) that played nothing but The Food Network on its in-house TVs.

He'd been struck by how different his classmate seemed out of his school attire; he looked somehow younger in his baggy workout gear. The permanently wry smile was still there, as was that all-knowing glint in his green eyes that made for a worldly-looking twenty-five year old, but, away from the crowd, his diminutive stature and slight frame made him seem a little softer, a little less intimidating, than he had before. They talked about classes, about textbooks and techniques and what they had to look forward to in the coming months. Jay was  _knowledgeable_ ; he'd travelled, he'd worked in real kitchens, cooked with real chefs and liked to show off the fact that he knew at least a little bit about everything. Luckily, he managed to do so without coming off as too much of a smartass and admitted that he was here because through his trials and travels he'd become a jack of all stations; master of none. Dave liked the guy; he reminded him a little of Az, insomuch as he was rough around the edges but smart with it, and it felt nice to spend some one-on-one time with a guy again that he wasn't a little bit in love with.

"You're sticking around to watch the game with us later, right?" Jay had asked when Dave stepped into the shower stall beside him after their workout. He'd hung back to strip off his sweaty training gear when he was alone, old habit clinging to life despite his newfound attempt at self-confidence. "The hot wings at that bar, man. Seriously, you need them in your life."

"Definitely. Just gonna hit up the library first. Need to finish that paper on seasonality," Dave said, relaxing again as he stepped further into the stall, allowing the water hit his chest.

"Cool, man. Sean's out, texted me to say he's sick, but it's just a hangover – fuckin' lightweight – and Lenny's still in, but he talked that girl Liv from prep class into coming along, and Rafi's wife's visiting for the weekend too, so I don't wanna be some kinda lame-ass fifth wheel if it gets kinda coupley, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know how it is. Though I nearly brought someone, too." Dave said, with what must've been a dopey smile on his face, before he thought better of it. He speedily soaped up his chest, keeping his eyes on the mould-coloured tiles in front of him.

Jay clicked his tongue, "Shit, you too? You guys meet some girl that can—"

"No, it wasn't a girl. A guy," he corrected, ducking his head under the weak stream of warm water to hide his reddening face. "A friend from back home, actually, but he didn't wanna come, so..."

"No?" Jay asked the paused to spit out a mouthful of water. "Why not?"

"He's not really into football."

"Shit, seriously? And you're friends with this guy...why?"

Dave knew it had been asked in jest, but he still felt bold, he felt  _brave_ , and it seemed like as good a time as any to test the water, so to speak. "He's a cool guy. We both like food, but he's into, like, the arts and stuff more than sports."

"Only arts I know about are the culinary kind."

"Yeah, well, he sings and stuff, so, he's into theatre, I guess. And he works in fashion," Dave chanced a fleeting look at Jay, and tried to sound casual as he added, "He's gay, actually."

"Aw, dude," Jay groaned and dropped his head so his water-darkened hair clung to his face, "you weren't...shit."

Dave felt his earlier calm drain away and a flare of panic prickle his skin. His eyes closed under the water and his throat refused to work.

Jay huffed and went on, "I'm not interested anyway, so don't—"

"I'm not—" he started to say, not sure what exactly he was protesting as a flashback from another locker room, another time and place, hit him hard.

"Listen, I know you mean well, man, but if I had a nickel for every fuckin' do-gooder that wanted to set me up with their one gay loser friend..." Jay trailed off and threw his head back with a chuckle.

Dave felt like he'd missed something. He forced his eyes to stay open, though his shoulders remained tense as he chanced a sideways look at Jay, "What?"

"I mean it's cool," Jay said, still smiling, shutting off the shower and grabbing his towel, "I appreciate the sentiment an' all, but I don't need anyone to set me up. Just 'cause I'm not knee deep in ass don't mean I can't find dudes for myself if I want to, y'know?"

"Wait," Dave shifted back a little, out of the line of the spray, and blinked against the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, " _you're_  gay?"

"You're waiting to double-check this  _after_  trying to set me up with your homo homeboy?"

Dave felt his eyes widen and his mouth move wordlessly, vaguely aware that he must look like some kind of suffocating guppy as the water ran down his face . "I wasn't...I wouldn't, at  _all_ , I don't...not with...I mean, I didn't even  _know_ ," he stuttered.

"No? Shit. Right. I guess you must've gone home the other night before I..." Jay's brow furrowed and he frowned, deep lines carving a path to his chin before he cocked an eyebrow and curved his lips back up into a smile "Well, surprise?"

"Yeah," Dave managed to mumble, still more than a little dumbfounded.

"We're not all...into the  _arts_  and shit, you know?"

"Trust me, I know."

There was a moment of silence but for the running water as Jay secured his towel around his narrow waist and made his way back towards the lockers ahead of Dave. He paused and looked back at him with questioning eyes, lips quirked in subtle amusement. "Wait, are you telling me you're...?"

"Yeah," Dave nodded, smiling shakily, grateful that the stall divider was covering his modesty. "Me too. Surprise?"

"Damn straight!" Jay laughed heartily at his own choice of words, shaking his wet head, as he padded away and, feeling relieved beyond all belief, Dave let himself breath again and joined in with that laughter.

Though their texting kept up for the rest of the night, Dave decided not to tell Kurt – not right away, not by text –that he'd officially come out to one of his new friends. Even though he was itching to tell him  _Look! I did it!_  he wanted to do it on person. He felt so unbelievably pleased to have  _finally_  fucking told someone that he was gay, and that, for once, it had – kind of,  _sort of_  – almost been his own choice.

Kurt's texts and life-altering admissions aside, the rest of Sunday had been fun, too. He'd told Jay before they left the gym that he wasn't ready to be  _out_  out and, true to his word, he didn't so much as allude to their mutual gayness all night.

At least, not until the game was over (his team lost 38-17, but Dave couldn't bring himself to care  _too_  much), when Rafi and his wife Pauline had left and Lenny and Liv were busy flirtily trying to one-up each other by showing off their tolerance for hard liquor at the bar, and Jay nudged his elbow and asked him who he'd been texting all night.

"Just...a friend," Dave said, sliding his phone back into his pocket with a small, guilty smile. "The one I told you about."

"Oh, you're artsy-fartsy,  _gay_  friend?" Jay challenged with a smirk. "That all he is?"

"Yes," Dave answered, took a chug of his beer, then added, "At least, I think so."

"So no, then."

"Shit," Dave chuckled, looking towards the bar where their other friends stood, bickering over whether to have shots of mescal or tequila. "It's complicated...and I am  _so_  not talking about it right now."

"Fine." Jay shrugged and finished his beer before tacking on, quietly, "He cute?"

Dave felt his face redden as he shook his head, though he couldn't fight the stretch of smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah," he said eventually with a little huff of incredulous breath, as if to say,  _of course he is._

"What type?"

"What?"

"He like you? A cute cub?"

"Ah," he felt his blush deepen, "no. He's kinda...twinky, I guess."

"Okay," Jay nodded slowly. "Good thing you weren't tryin' to set us up, then. That's not my type at all."

Dave smiled and nodded back, feeling his cheeks burn almost blue as he raised his beer bottle to his lips.

Jay snorted and slapped his palm against Dave's back so hard he nearly choked. "But I guess now I know it's yours."

On Monday, he'd managed not be too hungover to get top marks in knife skills class for his tournée potatoes and carrots – well, the technique  _did_  make the vegetables look like little footballs, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd practiced the cut before for that reason alone – and, after being good-naturedly derided by his peers, had been pulled aside along with Jay, Lenny and a tiny, quietly capable girl named Mizue that he hadn't really spoken to, by the chef instructor to ask if they'd like to assist with the prep work for a faculty dinner service this Saturday. They'd all jumped at the chance. It was well known that offers like this were thin on the ground and, as well as getting them extra class credits, the experience could really make a difference when it came to securing a good externship or even, in the longer term, an actual job.

Other than filling his dad in on all his good news, Tuesday had been pleasantly uneventful, the routine of his school schedule setting in after the first few weeks of uncertainty. He had no practical classes, but his inner geek enjoyed his culinary math and food safety classes anyway, and the quiet, regular buzzing he felt from his phone resting against his hip, signalling each of Kurt's texts, had been enough to keep the once seldom-seen smile on his face.

And, here he is, shivering from a combination of cold air and tightly-coiled anticipation, clinging to his newfound sanguinity as he waits to hear Kurt's  _proposition_  before he has to head to product knowledge class. He's cautiously curious about the reason for the call, beyond happy to hear his friend's voice, but scared that their plans are about to change; that he won't get to actually see Kurt again tonight, that he won't get to finally share his news, that he won't get to enjoy being bossed around his own kitchen by  _Chef Hummel_  during his promised soufflé masterclass ("That what you kids are calling it, now?" Jay had teased when he told him his plans).

He almost drops his phone when it starts to buzz in his hand.

"I'm so sorry, it's crazy here," Kurt gasps as soon as he answers, "I'm supposed to be on lunch right now but Cara called in sick again and Isabella's having a meltdown in the boardroom."

"Sounds like a typical day at the office," Dave says with a huff of laughter, turning so his back is flat against the wall as his heartbeat picks up pace again and he looks out over the opposing stillness of the quadrangle.

"I'm just glad to have a valid excuse not to be in there with them," he stage whispers. "Anyway...I've been given a little gift to make up for the craziness, which is why I'm calling."

Dave swallows, his lips curling back up and into an unconscious smile as he answers, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. Now, I know we're meant to be making my rum chocolate soufflé tonight," Kurt pauses and takes in a long breath, and Dave feels his heart still, ready to sink at the words Kurt starts to spill out at speed, "and we still can, if you really want to, but Chase had a reservation at that really hot new Japanese place right around the corner from here, and he obviously can't go because Isabella would pitch a fit if he left the building before midnight, and I've stayed late twice this week already, and I think he feels kind of sorry for me because I don't actually get, y'know,  _paid_  for being here, so he offered me the reservation as well as the thirty percent corporate discount he gets for taking clients there, and I thought it would be kinda fun."

Dave feels his shoulders slump. He only realizes he's biting hard on the flesh inside his cheek when he goes to speak, "Okay, yeah. That's okay. We can do the soufflé thing some other time, maybe, or I can just try Julia's soufflé recipe by myself, right? Get some practice before I embarrass myself—"

"We could still make soufflé afterwards, maybe," Kurt interjects, voice still high and rushed. "It's just that you said before that you've barely even tried sushi...and I'd love to introduce you to the joys of shabu-shabu."

Dave's heart starts beating again before his brain catches up. "You would?"

"You really do need to educate that palate, David."

"Oh," he smiles and feels some invisible knot unravel inside him. "Then yeah, you're right, shabu-shabu beats soufflé, I guess."

"When does your train get in?"

"Uh, around seven-thirty, usually."

"Perfect. I hope you can find a way to work up an appetite again by that time. Was that a  _whole bird_  you ate for lunch?"

"It was a tiny, little quail." Dave laughs, a little self-conscious, "I'll be fine for dinner. I'm already getting hungry just thinking about it."

"Me too," he says and that softness from earlier is back. He sighs. "But I better get back to it."

"Yeah, sure, so...seven-thirty at the station?"

"Yes," Kurt replies and pauses again, just long enough for Dave to picture the smile he's sure he can hear, "it's a date."

Dave waits to until he's sure that Kurt has disconnected and asks, "A  _date_ -date?" He doesn't really want to know the answer, not yet, and stays just where he is; weight supported by the wall at his back, phone clutched tight in his hand, still pressing smooth and cool against the burning shell of his ear, afraid to let go of the moment.

It's been a good week so far, a  _really_  fucking good week, and as he forces himself, eventually, to go back into the noisy warmth of Roth Hall and face the knowing smirk from Jay, to ignore the taunts and queries from Lenny and Liv and Rafi, he dares to hope against hope that it might just be about to get even better.


	9. Spilling (Green) Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you for your patience! Sorry updates have been so few and far between. I'm afraid this is yet another instance where I've decided to split a chapter for the sake of both brevity and frequency. My aim with this fic was always to post short, regular updates but the boys' encounters just keep demanding longer, more detailed chapters. So, with that in mind, instead of making you all wait forever, I'm going to continue to post shorter, possibly less satisfying parts from now until the end, even if it means spreading their 'dates' out over more than one chapter. Though you can rest assured that even when there's no food (like this time), there will still be some flirting.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the first part of their maybe, possibly date-date! As always, it's lovely to hear what you think, so please review. Thanks to everyone who has so far.

 

Dave's palms are sweating. In fact, he's in danger, he thinks as he wipes his hand on the threadbare armrest of his seat with as much discretion as he can muster, of becoming one big sweaty mess if he doesn't get off of this busy, stuffy, over-heated train pretty soon.

He'd been fine all afternoon – if a little distracted – despite the grilling he'd had from Jay about the smile that wouldn't leave his face after he'd disappeared to take Kurt's phone call during lunch, but now his positive frame of mind and perma-smile are giving way to plain old fear.

He's nervous. And with justification, he reasons: he might be just minutes away from going on a date. With  _Kurt_. And it won't be like any date he's been on before; he's pretty sure that eating sushi at a swanky New York City restaurant with Kurt Hummel is just about as far from choking down stodgy spaghetti at Breadstix on a faux-date with Santana as it's possible to get. He is, however, painfully aware that  _might_  remains the operative word; that he  _might_  be jumping the gun, assuming that just because Kurt ended their last conversation with the words  _"It's a date"_  that that's what it might be. People  _say_  that all the time though, right? It might be nothing more than a figure of speech. Still, he wants it to be more than that and, given all their recent friendly-flirting, it feels like it could – that it  _should_  – be.

Thankfully, the familiar lights that indicate  _home_  are now visible in the near distance, though what little relief he feels from that fact isn't in itself enough to calm his building anxiety overall. As his gaze drifts from the mirror-dark window, he catches a death-glare from the plump, dark-haired girl sitting opposite him, ostensibly reading her kindle, and he realizes that he's tapping his foot; a nervous tick that sends each bounce of his knee against the oversized purse resting on her lap in what he guesses is a particularly annoying fashion. He tries his best to look contrite and stops fidgeting, pulling his phone out of his pocket with a clammy hand to occupy him instead.

He has a message from Kurt – his own jiggling along with the jostling of the carriage must have masked the vibration in his pocket.  _ **Finally escaping the madness! Text me when you get to GCS x**_

He does his best to ignore the twin tingles of exhilaration and terror that prickle his skin and replies,  **Hey, train's just getting in now. Where will I find you?**

_**I'll be the brunette under the grand central clock with a smile on my face and a red rose in my lapel ;)** _

Dave reads the text quizzically before he realises with relief that Kurt is making a joke – a  _date_  joke. He's not sure whether that's a good or bad sign, though his stomach seems to decide for him as it does little spasmodic flip and he replies,  **Lol, cute :)** before he can think better of it.

Kurt's rejoinder comes swiftly:  _ **I'm actually huddled in the doorway of the Starbucks on Lexington. And I'm pretty sure you know what I look like by now :)**_

He finds himself smiling again despite the butterflies taking flight his belly as he stands to disembark, slinging the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, letting himself be jostled along by the ever-rushing commuter crowd as he jumps onto the platform. He thumbs at the touchscreen of his phone,  **I think I remember...**  he starts to type, and considers listing all the things he likes about the way Kurt looks before deciding against it and replacing the text on his screen with a simple  **Coming x** instead, hitting send and shaking his head, shoving the phone back into his pocket before he can think better of that, too.

When Kurt comes into view, he's backed by the warm, amber glow of the coffee house; the tip of his nose adorably pink from exposure to the cold, and if Dave thought he felt anxious before, it was nothing compared with the nauseous wave of nerves that hits him now. His day-worn clothes feel crinkled and sticky against his skin, his buttoned-up pea coat feels too loose and shabby. He didn't exactly want his first real date with Kurt (with anyone, really, but  _especially_  him) to be in his school clothes – boring navy slacks and a pale blue shirt that's a size too big just so the collar won't chafe at his sensitive neck – even if he had changed into them just before leaving school.

Kurt looks as put together as always; long and lean, even swaddled as he is in a slim charcoal colored wool coat and a thick, grey and purple striped – no-doubt designer – scarf. There's not a hair out of place as he stands with his back straight, face guarded as he looks out into the sea of faces until he catches sight of Dave, knees bending slightly as he turns, ruddy cheeks plumping, dimpling, as he smiles broadly and waves 'hello' with one black leather-gloved hand.

"Hey," Dave says and stills in front of him, trying to keep the wattage of his smile down to an acceptable beam. Kurt leans forward and throws his arms around him, embracing him for a short moment in which he holds his breath; warm hands pat the space between his shoulder blades and he only exhales when the shell of a cold ear presses against his cheek and causes him to shiver.

"It's good to see you," Kurt says, voice slightly breathy, as he pulls away.

"I, um, you too, really good," he mutters, self-conscious, wanting to say something more, something  _better_ , but the attempt sticks in his dry throat and Kurt is talking again, looking him up and down, before he can find his voice.

"I was half expecting you to appear in full chef's regalia," he grins, "sexy starched toque et al."

Dave laughs, cheeks heating against the chill air, as he struggles for the right words to say. "Afraid not. The toque is strictly for use in the kitchen," he says and Kurt looks at him, eyes gleaming against the artificial brightness seeping out into the night from Starbucks's window, and sucks his lips into a pensive line, barely disguising his smile.

"Well, that's a shame," he says after a moment, then starts to walk forward, nudging Dave with his shoulder as he edges past. "Come on," he shoves his hands into his pockets and jerks his head, "I'm cold and hungry and I know  _just_  the place."

* * *

When they enter the welcoming warmth of the restaurant the hostess greets them at the door, nodding when Kurt gives the name Madsen, smiling brightly as she takes each of their coats before showing them past the bar to a well-appointed table near the back of the room. Dave takes in the sparse, modern decor; the room is a wide square, lined with three neat rows of tables, flanked by low-slung bench seating, and the walls are panelled in a bright, lacquered cedarwood, decorated only by a neat line of small, square recesses that each contains an illuminated paper lantern. As they're seated Dave can hear the feint hiss and clink of the kitchen, and is a little disappointed to note that it's located behind a short, concealed passageway, entirely hidden from view.

"Green tea?" The hostess offers as she lays glossy menus down in front of them.

Dave looks to Kurt for an answer, warmed as much by the approving smile that spreads across his face as he is by the heat in the restaurant.

"Please," Kurt extends his smile to the hostess, "for both of us."

Dave feels his heart flutter, unwarranted, at Kurt's mention of an  _us_  that includes him.

His nerves had abated somewhat as they walked the short distance to the restaurant; talking amiably about their respective days, weaving their way side-by-side through the bustle of impatient, home-bound workers and ever-leisurely tourists. He'd let his gaze drift sideways to Kurt and watched his face grow animated as he described the chaos of his office and bitched good-naturedly about the woeful inadequacy of some of his well-paid colleagues. When Kurt's eye caught his, his fond smile was quickly reciprocated.

"Actually," Kurt had said as he edged a bit closer to him, momentarily holding his tongue between his lips, looking slightly mischievous, "I decided to use the whole sorry situation to my advantage and snuck a little something I wrote on the merits of spring knitwear into Isabelle's 'submissions' file."

Dave was as impressed as ever by his initiative. "That's pretty badass, Hummel," he'd ribbed.

"That's me all over," Kurt had deadpanned and went on, "But if I want to try this whole journalism thing, I might as well go for it. If you don't take the chance you just never know, right? And even if it doesn't work out this time, it doesn't mean I won't get a second shot." He smiled then, a little sadly, as he held Dave's gaze and his voice softened, "I'm a big believer in second chances. I've learned, this year, that rejection isn't something to be afraid of. Even if it hurts at the time, it can be a good thing; it can make you stronger, more resilient. It can give you a new perspective."

Dave felt a pang of hurt at the memory of all the rejections he'd faced in the past year. He nodded and forced a small smile, "Yeah, I think you're right about that."

"That's something you should know about me, David," Kurt had said seriously, leaning in closer still, the length of his arm pressing solidly against Dave's own, as his voice dropped to an exaggerated whisper, "I'm always right. Except when I'm wrong."

They'd both laughed at that, enough to stifle the surfacing tension; even if Dave wasn't quite sure he got the joke.

Now, though, the tension is back, tenfold, as they sit opposite one another in silence. His nerves buzz as he realizes again that he might be on a date. In a public place. With a  _guy_. And not just any guy– with  _Kurt_ , who's currently studying his menu, long fingers absently caressing the little black button at the apex of his white shirt collar, a movement that instantly draws Dave's attention to the slight swell of his Adam's apple, that in turn draws his eye up and to the slightest shadow of stubble that accentuates the soft curve of his jaw, that leads him to wonder just what that scruff might feel against his lips. He pulls in a shaky breath and attempts to busy himself with the serious business of deciding what to order.

"This is, um," Dave feels anxiety blur his vision slightly as he tries to take in the various sections of the menu: there's makizushi and nigirizushi, temaki and futomaki, sukiyaki and shabu-shabu. It makes him realize that, however well he might be doing in class right now, he still has a  _lot_  to learn about world cuisine. Among other things. "It all sounds good. I think."

Kurt looks at him, clearly amused by the edge of uncertainty in his voice. "You're not squeamish about any of this stuff, are you?"

"No," he shakes his head, "Not at all. It's just...I'm kind of a beginner when it comes to Japanese food."

"But you're happy to give it a try?"

"Of course," he smiles and holds Kurt's unwavering gaze, emboldened by the warmth he finds there, "My mind and my mouth are open to whatever you suggest."

Kurt smiles back at him, slow and lopsided. "I think I like the sound of that," he says and doesn't look away until their server approaches a few seconds later with two handleless mugs and places them smoothly on the table without a word.

He's blatantly flirting with Kurt now, there's no denying it, not this time, not when they're face to blushing face. And Kurt's reaction makes his whole body tingle with giddy optimism.

"I've never actually eaten here," Kurt says after clearing his throat, palming his mug and drawing it close, nostrils flaring a little as he inhales the wafting, grassy aroma, "but I'm not exactly a stranger to Japanese cuisine, so we can just order the chef's sushi selection to start, if you like, and I can show you the ropes."

Dave smiles and nods as their eyes meet briefly across the table again before they each look back down at their menus.

"Or, in this case, the  _roe_."

Dave stifles a laugh and looks up again in time to see Kurt's brow furrow, cheeks pinking, lips drawn into a thin, white line as he studies his menu with newfound intensity. It's the first sign he's seen that Kurt might actually be nervous too and he hopes that's a positive sign.

"Was that a pun, Kurt?" He teases and does his best to school his features as Kurt looks up, "A  _fish_  pun? Because we're in, y'know, a sushi restaurant?"

"Um…" Kurt looks up and away, straight-faced though there's a smile threatening as he feigns deliberation.

"It's okay," Dave says, sucking in a little breath of courage before going on, "there's no need to be  _coy_."

Kurt's mouth opens to speak, then he just groans and they both giggle, tension well and truly broken.

"I always knew that you were a closet dork," Kurt says before blowing gently on the contents of the mug now perched beneath his lips.

"Oh, yeah, among other things," he laughs and mimic's Kurt's action, lifting the fragrant drink towards his mouth with both hands, "It was getting pretty crowded in there, actually."

"In your closet?"

Dave takes a small sip of the tea and nods, "Yeah." It's unlike any other tea he's tasted; it's not sweet or milky or even very strongly flavored. It's hot and fragrant and mildly herbaceous, bright and strangely  _green_  on his tongue. He wouldn't say he finds it instantly delicious, but he meant what he said before; he's more than willing to try whatever Kurt suggests. He takes another, bigger mouthful.

"Well, it must be almost empty by now."

Dave smiles, enjoying the fresh warmth that lingers in his throat, "It's getting there."

Kurt smirks and leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin on the heel of his cupped hand, "There's nothing worse than a cluttered closet."

"Actually, that reminds me," Dave says, preemptively pleased with himself, "I have something to tell you."

"Oh?" Kurt asks, lifting his chin, eyes wide and waiting.

"I, uh, came out to a guy at school."

"That's...I'm so proud of you, David!" he smiles wide, then pulls it back, eyes narrowing. "How did it go?"

"Really well, although I seem to have a thing for accidentally outing myself in locker rooms," Dave answers, pushing the past shame away as he tells Kurt all about his little misunderstanding with Jay at the campus gym.

"So, there's another single, gay gastronome in your life now," Kurt says casually when he's finished telling Dave off for not dishing about his little break-through sooner, concentrating on clasping both hands around his drink. "Should I be jealous?"

"Do you need a few more minutes?" The suddenness of the woman's voice jars him almost as much as Kurt's query; he'd almost forgotten there was anyone else in the room. The server smiles down at them, hovering at the edge of the table, oblivious to the badly-timed interruption as she holds her little pad and pen aloft, poised and ready to take their order.

His palms feel damp again as he glances across at Kurt who's still looking back at him, brows raised, waiting for an answer; although he's not sure to which question. "No," he says, eyes staying pointedly fixed on Kurt as a small smile finds its way back onto his lips, "I think we're good."


	10. Sushi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback on the last chapter. I'm glad you all seem to be on board with shorter parts, even if it means less 'happens'. Here's another one! I've been ill this week and really felt like this chapter was just getting away from me in terms of plot and character and...everything, really, so apologies if that comes across. There will be one more part to their night, and then I swear the story will pick up a little pace. As always, I hope you enjoy it! I love hearing what you think, even if you just want to tell me off for being a self-indulgent tease, so please leave a review :)

 

Dave blinks at the sight in front of him. It's every bit as beautifully presented and deliciously intimidating as he'd expected it to be.

The  _sushi_ , that is.

They'd ordered the  _itamae's choice_  – the chef's specially selected sushi picks of the day – and, when the little wooden platter is placed down in front of him, Dave finds his eyes drawn willingly away from Kurt for the first time tonight, towards the twelve perfectly constructed stacks of rice and fish and nori and he's not sure  _what_  else yet, saliva pooling in his mouth as he realises he's about to find out.

His first instinct is to reach for his phone and snap a picture before he's struck with the dizzying realization that there's no need; that the person he'd normally share that picture with is sitting opposite him, thanking the server as she pours soy sauce into the two small, round dipping dishes she's just placed on the table, each already dotted with a pea-sized splodge of bright green wasabi paste. He smiles as the server departs and Kurt catches his eye.

"Little light on the old wasabi, huh?" he whispers, almost conspiratorially, as he lifts his chopsticks and starts to mix.

"It is?" Dave asks, studying Kurt's actions.

"It is if you like wasabi," he says, shoulders rising and falling briefly as he speaks, "and I, for one,  _love_  it."

"Well, this'll be my first time, so..." Dave says, mildly self-conscious as he mimics Kurt's actions, gently prodding the surface of the thick paste with the end of a chopstick.

"In that case, we'd better make it memorable," Kurt tells him, still swirling his own helping through a dark pool of soy sauce, "Try a little on its own before mixing it with the soy. Be careful, though," Kurt warns, raising a glossy red chopstick to his mouth and sucking the tip briefly between his lips to test it before going on, "It's hot."

Dave swallows thickly, temporarily dumbstruck by the sight of Kurt's cheeks hollowing, his lips pursing because  _yeah_ , that's hot. "I like a little heat," he assures him, eventually regaining the power of speech, and scoops up a quarter of the wasabi on the end of both chopsticks.

"Good," Kurt says simply as his eyes fall to Dave's mouth and he watches with amused interest as he takes his first taste.

Dave tries his best to concentrate on the task at hand. The flavor of the wasabi is instantly bright on his tongue; enough to steal his attention momentarily away from the subtle, upward curve of Kurt's lips. There's a light tingle on his palate, a subtle flash of vibrant flavor and peppery heat before he feels his nostrils flare from the slight burning sensation as it touches the back of his throat. "It's good," he coughs a little, trying to mask it as a laugh, and sputters, "I like it."

Kurt giggles and shakes his head. "And that's just the beginning," he tells him.

Dave takes a sip of his coke and nods, not sure if the tingling in his chest is a result if the slow-burn of the wasabi or from the promise in the warm, velvety tone of Kurt's voice.

* * *

Despite his neophyte status and the nerves, the lingering uncertaintyabout just _what_ tonight is, if anything, that won't allow him to fully relax despite the increasingly easy flow of conversation, Dave thinks he's managed not to embarrass himself too much up to now. He's thankful that he's eaten enough Chinese take-out in his day to be at least decent with a pair of chopsticks (even if tackling the delicately moulded blocks of rice and expertly sliced fish proves a  _little_  more tricky than the average carton of mu-shu pork), and he's following Kurt's lead closely, imitating his actions and listening intently as he teaches him the Japanese names for everything (and really, Dave knows nothing about the Japanese language, but he's pretty sure that Kurt's pronunciations are tinged with a slight French-accented flair that he finds ridiculously, inexplicably endearing) as they work their way unhurriedly around their getas – the proper, Japanese name for the little wooden platter their sushi is served on – eating each bite in unison.

So far, they've had the chutoro nigiri (a rectangular block of rice draped in a slice of milky-pink belly tuna that melted deliciously on his tongue), a spicy maguro gunkan (a battleship roll topped with diced, lean akami tuna mixed with punchy shichimi chilli powder and finely sliced green onion), shinko and kappa makis (thin rolls filled simply with refreshing pickled daikon and cucumber) and the unagi futomaki (a round, smoked eel filled sushi roll topped with charred sesame seeds and a smoky eel sauce), each piece a little more delicious than the last and all accompanied by little  _'hmms'_  of satisfaction and tidbits of trivia from Kurt that Dave drinks in, stores away in his memory for future professional, and private, use.

"They used to make itamaes train for  _ten years_  before they were allowed to actually work. Could you imagine staying at the CIA for that long?"

Dave swallows a piece of gari – a sweet, juicy, wafer-thin sliced pickled ginger served to cleanse the palate between different bites – and shakes his head, "I'd be almost thirty. I don't think my dad would pay my rent for that long. I'd have to give up the dream."

"Or get a part time job on the side and pay your  _own_  rent," Kurt offers cheekily as he grabs a bit of gari for himself.

"Says the guy who just used his dad's emergency credit card to buy  _knitwear_."

"Hey!" He scolds, chopsticks in mid-air, brandished forward like a weapon, "How do you even know that?"

"You  _told_  me, I have the text message to prove it."

Kurt smiles ruefully, "Well, a sale at Macy's absolutely counts as an emergency."

"Right..."

"And it  _is_  winter, David. How else am I supposed to keep warm in my icebox apartment?"

"I'm sure you could think of some other way that doesn't involve clothing," Dave proposes, the retort  _honestly,_  completely innocent until he sees Kurt's eyes widen slightly at the broader implication.

"Shut up and eat," Kurt says, cheeks faintly pink as he reaches for the next piece sushi, gesturing for Dave to do the same, "the  _tako nigiri_  is next."

More than happy to get his mind back to food, Dave picks up the oblong block of rice that hosts a white piece of flesh tinged faintly purple at the edge, attached to the top with a thin belt of green nori, and awaits further instruction.

" _Tako_  is octopus," Kurt says and angles his chopsticks for a three-sixty view before lowering it to his shoya dish and swiping it, flesh first, through the soy and wasabi dip, "although it isn't raw, like you'd think, but gently poached in a dashi broth to enhance both the flavor and texture."

Dave watches, impressed and then some, as Kurt opens his mouth wide and the whole glistening nigiri disappears inside.

"How do you...?" he starts to ask, words failing him a little as he almost drops his own block of rice, struggling to do anything but just watch and listen and  _enjoy_ , "Uh, how do you know so much about this...stuff?"

"I like—" he starts around a retreating mouthful, tongue peeking out between his lips for the briefest of seconds, before he chews some more, jaw working rhythmically, entrancingly, before he swallows and replies with a not-quite shy smile, "I'm just interested, I guess. Am I being a bore?"

"No, not at  _all_ ," Dave protests and shoves his own near-forgotten piece of sushi into his mouth with as much finesse as he can manage, tearing his eyes away from slight sheen on Kurt's lips. He's trying to forget that this  _might_  be a date, to act as normally as he ever does around Kurt, to just have  _fun_  and let go without thinking about what he wants to happen next. "I'm interested, too," he says with a smile, although that's officially the understatement of the century.

Kurt grins in response and Dave tries to concentrate on the firm yet tender texture on his tongue rather than the jelly in his legs as he pushes away  _those_  thoughts. Whatever will be will be, right? Que sera sera, he tells himself, like in that song. He feels momentarily better before wincing at his subconscious for outgaying even his  _libido_  by conjuring up a fucking  _Doris Day_  song in an attempt to quell his internal anxiety.

"What's next?" He asks, seeking distraction, as he takes a much-needed sip of his ice cold soda.

"Let's go for the  _sake uromaki_ ," Kurt suggests, dipping his head to survey what's left on his geta, "it's one of my favorites."

They each reach for the fat inside out roll, generously filled with salmon and sliced avocado and wrapped in nori first, then rice, and finished with tobiko. "That's flying fish roe," Kurt tells him as he examines the tiny, vivid orange pearls that coat the outside of the roll, "which, I learned during my first foray into sushi making at home, is surprisingly hard to find in Lima."

"Shocking," Dave deadpans and dips the loaded uromaki into his shoya dish with care.

"I know, right?" he replies as he catches up to Dave, dipping his roll as Dave makes short work of his own.

He can instantly tell why it's a favorite of Kurt's: each of the flavors is individually pronounced – the sweet, clean taste of the salmon; the buttery softness of the avocado; the satisfyingly salty crunch of the roe – yet they meld perfectly together, layers of unified texture and taste complimented by the faintly fiery soy dip.

"I think this one's my favorite so far, too," he says when he catches Kurt watching him, gaze quietly enquiring.

Kurt smirks around a slightly muffled, "Told you," and finishes chewing before going on. "I love salmon and avocado together in almost any form."

"Me too. My mom used to make this amazing salad with smoked salmon and avocado," his unwitting mention of his estranged mother pulls him up short – it's the first time he's thought of her fondly, even by association, in long time – and he knows Kurt catches the sudden tension in his pause; he looks across at him, chewing silently on a piece of gari, eyes soft with concern. Dave pokes at his own pile of gari with his chopsticks for a minute before deciding to go on, "I remember this one time in fifth grade, I think, when we had to stand up in class and talk about our favorite meal. All the kids chose burgers and pizza and mac and cheese and I chose this stupid salmon and avocado salad my mom made when my Aunt Patricia had come to visit. And I remember talking about how awesome this chilli-lime vinaigrette was and being, like,  _surprised_  when I got so much shit from the other kids about it – including Hudson, by the way – even the teacher looked at me like I was..." he trails off, the fond memory souring as it comes into sharper focus.

"...different?" Kurt offers.

He nods back, frowning. "Yeah. I guess it was one of the things back then that made me realise that I didn't  _want_  to be different."

Kurt gives him that sad but genuine smile he's seen too many times. He used to think it was borne of pity, but now he thinks there's a chance that it comes more from understanding. At least this time. Still, he feels like he's fucked up, sobered the moment.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't be," Kurt stops him mid apology and holds his gaze for what feels like forever before he speaks again, smile gone but tone pointedly lighter. "Did your mom cook a lot when you were growing up?"

"Yeah, she was...she's a really good cook," he says, and it feels vaguely cathartic to be talking about his mom like this to anyone but his therapist, to acknowledge that he at least still  _has_  one, even if she feels like she no longer has a son. "She wouldn't let me near the kitchen, though. Like, not even to make a sandwich. I guess that's why it was only when she left, and I  _could_ , that I really, seriously, started taking an interest in cooking."

"Me too," Kurt smiles again, eyes still locked on Dave's, "Kind of. I mean, it's different, obviously, but...I remember baking cookies with my mom when I was too young to really learn anything, but it wasn't until after..." he laughs lightly, tilting his head back, before he sighs and continues, gently shifting away from the weighty subject of their missing mothers, "My dad is no use at  _all_  in the kitchen. He could burn water."

Dave's smiles,  _breathes_ , again, the newfound tension cracked if not quite broken, "If he's anything like mine, cooking is a necessity rather than a luxury."

"My dad would have Slim Jims with coke three times a day if he could get away with it."

"Like you'd ever let him away with that."

"Exactly," Kurt beams, "which is why he's only has one heart attack so far."

They laugh at that and fall silent, Dave following Kurt's lead yet again as he reaches for the next piece of sushi –  _inari_  this time, a fried soy bean pouch filled with sushi rice and chopped tomago, cucumber and pickled radish – which they eat in strangely comfortable silence. It's deliciously different from everything else they've tried tonight; sweet and almost familiar.

"It's not so bad, is it?" Kurt asks, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the side of water glass as he speaks.

"The inari pocket?"

Kurt shakes his head, and his lips quirk but not enough to form a full blown smile. "Being  _different_ ," he clarifies.

"Oh," Dave smiles and huffs out a little breath of subdued laughter, suddenly coy under Kurt's open gaze, feeling exposed by the frank turn of their discussion. He doesn't let himself look away, though, as he answers, honestly, "It got me here, so...no, it's not so bad at all."

* * *


	11. Cannoli

"So, this is the place," Dave says when they step into the heat of the Fratelli Nardini pasticceria, just half a block south of Kurt's apartment. He hadn't been able to resist (had barely been able to  _breathe_ , in truth) when Kurt suggested they come here, together, instead of parting ways after their shared sushi dinner at Mishima.

"It's a little late for soufflé making," he'd said, pausing in the doorway of the restaurant to look down at some invisible scuff on his highly polished shoes, "but I think I could still manage a little something sweet."

Dave swallowed back a hopeful smile, tried to keep his tone level. "What did you have in mind?"

"Hmm...how about that Italian bakery I told you about? It's right by my building and opens late. We could share a little something fancy." Kurt said, eyebrows raised in what might have been hope or humor. His use of Dave's erstwhile pet name for him, the glint in his eye and the very prospect of being invited anywhere  _near_ Kurt's building had summoned up a whole host of feelings that Dave had been trying in vain to keep at bay; he so wanted to share something  _with_  fancy.

"Sounds good," he'd nodded enthusiastically as they braved the bracingly cold night air. He'd watched, from the corner of his eye, the smile linger on Kurt's lips when they began to walk, felt the warmth of it pull him in as he dared move a little closer; testing the invisible boundary between them, allowing himself to smile, too, when he felt the answering pressure of Kurt's shoulder pressing against his own.

Their conversation had continued to drift, in the way it had all night, between easy chit-chat and ambiguously playful banter. Kurt mused about how slim his chances of actually getting to write for Vogue probably were - his self-doubt showing in a way Dave had once never imagined possible - and it prompted Dave to confess to another of his own myriad shortcomings by telling Kurt how he'd flunked his palate test in that afternoon's product knowledge class. Still, he was happy to be gently mocked. The novelty of Kurt's smile had yet to wear off, and he loved that he could make him laugh, even if it was at his own expense.

The walk had been nice.  _So_  nice. But he'd ached to make it nicer still; his cold hand had itched to reach out and touch, to cement his intentions, to entwine their fingers as they strolled the city streets, talking, laughing; he'd ached to  _feel_  Kurt's warmth on his skin, but he'd resisted. He still wasn't completely sure that it was what Kurt wanted, or if he was willing to risk another public rejection if it wasn't.

And, twenty minutes of equal pleasure and pain later, here they are; waiting behind a middle-aged woman - who, if her questions are anything to go by, is allergic to  _everything_  - in Kurt's local bakery.

"This is it," Kurt says, "Home of delicious limoncello tiramisu, the most fantastic bagels and, if the sign's to be believed," he points towards a slightly faded tricolore banner above the cash register, "award winning cannoli."

"Are they worthy of the award?" Dave asks as he scans the shop; it's small and brightly lit, with custard colored walls, a well-worn checkered tile floor and a lingering, yeast and sweet cinnamon smell that gives it a distinctly old-school, homey cucina feel.

He shrugs absently, busy eyeing the counter display. "I don't know, I've never tried them."

"No?" Dave asks, genuinely surprised after all he's discovered about Kurt's gastronomic prowess lately. "Why not?"

His brows knit and he looks back at Dave, tilting his head to the side. "I don't know. Actually, I don't think I've ever even eaten cannoli before."

"Seriously? Not even at Breadstix?"

Kurt gives him an exaggerated frown, "Especially not at Breadstix."

"Well, it doesn't look like there's too much else to choose from," Dave motions towards the sparse selection of still-delicious looking cookies and pastries that dot the shelves of the glass fronted display case beneath the counter, the bulk of the day's wares mostly gone by this time of the night, "and I don't think I should be the only one to try something new tonight."

"Hmm, I'm all for adventure, as you know, but they still have black and white cookies and they are  _really_  good here, so…"

Dave studies the vast board that lines the wall behind the counter. "Well, they do black and white cannoli, too," he says, nudging Kurt lightly with his elbow, enjoying the smile it elicits, as he proceeds to read aloud, voice pitched low as he squints to make out the loopy cursive print of the description: " _Our original award winning, hand-rolled, freshly fried pastry shells, dipped half in rich dark chocolate and half in milky white chocolate, filled with sweet ricotta cream and topped with your choice of chopped nuts, chocolate chips or candied—_ "

"Okay, okay! It sounds good," Kurt says, conceding with a full on grin. "You're hard to resist."

Dave feels his mouth open and close to say something -  _anything_  - in response to that but doesn't manage a word before Kurt's gaze drops and he amends, "I mean, you make them sound hard to resist. The black and white cannoli."

Dave licks his suddenly dry lips and shrugs his shoulders, "They are award winning…"

"I'm completely sold," Kurt says and moves forward as the woman in front of them turns to leave with small, bow-wrapped box, "Let tonight's culinary exploration continue."

~o~

The black and white cannoli are totally award worthy, and just as described on the board; crisp and sweet, dipped in equal parts bitter dark and contrasting creamy white chocolate, ridiculously over-stuffed with a rich, velvety ricotta filling, and finished with a liberal topping of chopped green pistachios. They opted to take them loosely wrapped in wax paper, making them relatively easy to eat as they amble slowly towards Kurt's apartment.

Dave chews slowly and feels his heart thrum a little harder, a little higher, in his chest the closer they get to Kurt's place; unsure if he's more afraid of saying goodnight so soon or getting his hopes up that he might not have to, just yet.

"So, what's the verdict?"

"You know it's good," Kurt answers, slightly muffled around a mouthful, his tongue absently chasing a little splodge of escaped ricotta at the corner of his lips before he goes on, "when you can feel your ass getting fatter with every bite."

"Shut up," Dave laughs, "your ass is—"  _perfect_ , he wants to say, because fuck,  _seriously_ , he's had more fantasies about that ass than he cares to admit, but he feels himself begin to blush just at the thought, so he pauses, swallows, and settles instead for, "just fine."

Kurt smiles at him, small and lopsided, but says nothing more before going back to tonguing obscenely at the cream-filled opening of his pastry.

"And anyway," Dave adds, trying to refocus on his  _own_  dessert instead of Kurt's, "the sushi was super healthy so this just balances it out."

"True," Kurt nods thoughtfully as he chews, seemingly content to concede to Dave's flawed logic. "Although, as good as this undoubtedly is, it's still no match for my famous rum chocolate soufflé," he turns his head towards Dave and brandishes the remainder of his cannoli at him, "Don't think you're getting out of my masterclass that easily, mister."

Dave shoots him an innocent look. "Wasn't it  _your_  idea to go get sushi instead?"

"Yes, but you agreed with barely any hesitation," he counters, smirking.

"Well, I—"

"Just so you know, we're simply rescheduling," he says in a no-nonsense tone. "The masterclass is still very much a go."

"Fine by me," Dave says, quietly grateful that Kurt had cut him off before he had time to say anything potentially embarrassing. He tries to conceal his spreading smile behind the remainder of his dessert.

"By the sound of it you need all the help you can get."

"Hey! That's not fair."

"Didn't you just tell me that in your blindfolded palate test – which, by the way, sounds like  _entirely_  too much fun for the classroom – you mistook a potato for an apple? And what was the other one? You thought a piece pork chop was turkey? I'm seriously having second thoughts about being your culinary guinea pig, David…"

"That pork was dangerously overcooked!" Dave defends, "And I was...distracted."

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively, smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "You're technique's good, but your palate could obviously use a little supplementary education."

"How can I even argue with that after tonight?"

"You can't," Kurt agrees, "and you shouldn't. We should get you back into the kitchen ASAP."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" And he says it – means it – with humor, but even so, Kurt's eyes darken and his smile temporarily drops. Dave wishes he could kick the habit he has of reminding Kurt of his past;  _their_  past.

"Hey, no rest for the wicked  _good_ ," Kurt cautions seriously before his expressions lifts, along with his tone, "Or at least, the  _potentially_  wicked good."

Dave laughs, the warm air from his breath billowing out in a quick, white plume that fades before he can try to focus on it. He sucks in a breath before speaking, "I'm ready to get back into the kitchen with you whenever you want me."

Kurt turns to look at him, though his eyes are hidden in shadow as they pass a darkened shopfront, "The sooner the better. How about tomorrow night?"

"I can't,  _shit_ ," he mutters and there's a beat as he bites the inside of his cheek, internally debating whether or not tell him  _why_.

"Oh, okay, just...whenever you're free, then," Kurt says in response, but his voice is higher than it was, faux-casual, and even the barest flicker of anything resembling hurt in that face is enough to make Dave's decision for him.

"This is kind of embarrassing, I guess," he starts and Kurt turns his head back to Dave, quirking his brow in gentle query as he listens, "but I have therapy on Thursday nights. And, y'know, going to that is kind of a big condition of me being out here, so..."

"That's not embarrassing," he says softly, reassuringly, and drifts a little closer, so that their shoulders brush again as they continue to walk slowly, "not at  _all_. You shouldn't be ashamed of anything you do in the interest of self improvement, David. Just look how far you've come."

"All the way to New York City," he says with a little huff of forced laughter, hoping the deflection from behaviour to simple geography will lessen the burgeoning awkwardness. Dave  _knows_  Kurt's right, but he still feels self-conscious to the extent that his cheeks are warm even in the cold, ashamed of the fact that Kurt has had to experience most of the issues he's working through first-hand.

Kurt pouts and gives him a clear 'that's-not-what-I-meant' look but gratefully lets the subject of his reformation drop and, instead, grabs for the wrapper of the finished cannoli in Dave's hand, and tosses it, along with his own, into an an overflowing garbage can on the sidewalk before slowing to stop in front of a weather-worn apartment block, "All the way to my glamorous abode."

Dave stills beside him and looks up, shoving his now empty hands into his pockets. "So this is your building."

"It is indeed."

"I guess the doorman's on a break."

"Naturally," Kurt says, mirroring Dave's actions by pocketing his gloved hands and grinning as he turns slightly so they're fully facing one another.

"So, um, I'm helping out at school all day Saturday, but Sunday's good, or Friday night again if you're not already—"

"Friday's perfect," he cuts in, softly enthusiastic, but seems to catch himself. He bites his bottom lip and looks up and away for a second before his eyes are back on Dave's and his lips settle into a small, sheepish smile.

Dave bites back a nervous, giddy smile of his own. "Friday, then," he says, eventually, because otherwise, he realizes, he's just standing there, staring silently into Kurt's eyes that, under the orange glow of the streetlight, look an incredible, inconceivable, shade of green.

Kurt nods slowly, but doesn't move, or say anything more, though Dave's gaze falls back towards his mouth, where his tongue darts out  _again_  - yeah, he does do that a  _lot_  - just for a fraction of a second, leaving a small, glistening trail of moisture on his previously dry lips before disappearing back between them. Suddenly, all Dave can think about is how he wants nothing more in the world than to chase the path of Kurt's tongue with his own.

"I—"

" _Hey you!_ "

"Oh," Kurt starts and jerks his head in the direction of the dark, handsome stranger who's suddenly behind him "Hey, Cam."

Or dark, handsome  _not_  a stranger, as it turns out.

"I've been looking out for you," Cam says, poking Kurt lightly,  _playfully_ , on the shoulder, "Where've you been hiding?"

"Oh, y'know, run ragged at work and—"

"Tsk, tsk!" Cam chides, yet to acknowledge Dave's presence, "You know what they say about all work and no play."

"Do I?" Kurt asks, looking a little discomfited as he glances fleeting at Dave.

"You should," Cam responds with broad, too-white smile before following Kurt's gaze to look questioningly at Dave. "Who's your friend?"

"This is David. David, this is Cam. He lives here, too."

"Right  _under_  Kurt, actually," Cam says, dazzling smile never leaving his lips as he looks Dave up and down. "Nice to meet you, David. Are you new to the building or new to Kurt?"

"Uh, neither," Dave replies, cursing this guy under his breath. "Kurt and I went to school together, back in Ohio."

"Of course. How  _nice_ ," Cam says, smiling at Dave, his words instantly grating as he turns his attention promptly back to Kurt. "Well, I need your professional opinion on my newly completed interior  _decor_. The place has changed a lot since you last paid me a visit, especially the bedroom, and—"

Dave bites his tongue and tries to tune him out as he feels his blood roll to a slow boil.

 _Of course_  this guy's flirting with Kurt right in front of him, he reasons.  _This_ is the kind of guy Kurt goes on dates with.  _This_  is the kind of guy who's worthy of Kurt's attention; the kind of guy who doesn't have to hide behind a mask to make a move. He's brimming with the kind of self-confidence that Dave has only ever been able to fake; and he's  _hot_  - taught olive skin and dark coiffed hair and a smile that would blind you in the right kind of light – though he's not exactly Dave's type, he definitely looks like what he's pretty sure is  _Kurt's_  type, judging by his last boyfriend. And it's nothing at all like him.

He watches Kurt's face begin to flush and feels like he's been tackled to the ground; outplayed by the opposition in a game he never stood any chance of winning.

"—But I better go. My public awaits!" Cam looks away from Kurt and towards Dave with a slow-spreading smirk. "Tell him to call me, David."

Kurt rolls his eyes as the guy saunters away.

Dave pulls in a deep, unsteady breath, "So, uh, you should call him, I guess."

"Are you kidding?" Kurt barks out a quiet laugh, still smiling, but it's less pronounced, and his brow is furrowed a little as he turns back to face Dave fully.

"Yeah, well, his bedroom's changed since you were last there, so I guess you should go take another look."

"David, it's not like that—"

"He's obviously into you, and you could do a lot worse," he knows his tone is suddenly too casual, too detached, but it's all he can manage in place of the petty, jealous rage he feels inside.

Kurt's smile collapses and his brow knits. His gaze turns into a glare, "Well, maybe he's not my type."

"No?" Dave huffs, and the harsh blast of white-cold air clouds the space between them. He can't help himself, the next words leave his mouth before they're even fully formed in his mind, "I guess I should know about that. I'm no preppy prettyboy myself."

Kurt's jaw sets and he blinks his eyes hurriedly, suddenly looking up at the clear night sky, at the illuminated windows above them, anywhere but at Dave. He knows then that he's really fucked up. The moment from before, whatever it was, is well and truly gone because he's a petty, pining idiot, and if Kurt had actually managed to forget any of that, he knows he's just done a pretty good job of reminding him.

And the saddest part is, he can see the spark of anger in those more-green-tonight-than-blue eyes fizzle to plain old disappointment. He nows because he's seen it before.

"Goodnight, David," he intones - a flat, soft sound that hurts just as much as any other words he could choose to say - before turning towards the graffitied security door of his building.

"Kurt, wait," Dave calls after a second, doing his best to sound as contrite as he feels, because he will not fucking run away from Kurt Hummel again just because he's feeling shitty about himself, damnit; he won't undo everything that he's done, that  _they've_  just done, together. Kurt looks back over his shoulder, hand stilling on his key as it turns in the lock, "I'm—Is Friday still...?"

"Maybe—" He pauses, looking back at him for a long, inscrutable moment, and sighs, "Only if you want it to be."

He nods mutely, throat clogged with a million jumbled words, all of them useless; all of them already, previously, spoken. He squeezes his eyes shut and, when he opens them, Kurt is pushing to open the heavy entrance door in front of him, almost gone.

He turns to make his own way home, nauseous with regret and something like relief. He knows he may have come a long way, but it's still not where he needs to be.

"David?" Kurt calls from behind him, and Dave instantly stills, turns back, hope and fear battling his wits as he sees him backlit in scant light, framed by the doorway. "Just so you know," he says softly and Dave braces himself for rejection that doesn't come, "I have no desire to date another Blaine. What I want is...someone  _different_."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, again, not too happy with this chapter. This whole section of the story just grew arms and legs and ran away from me, but I have most of the next chapter written, and I actually do like that one, so…let's just get on with it, shall we? I hope you enjoyed this part anyway! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Oh, and sorry for the angst. Don't hate me. There are happy funtimes ahead ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As has become customary, I'm prefacing this chapter with an apology. This isn't, in fact, the chapter I referred to having already written most of last time, but is instead one that happened en route, that I couldn't get to fit too well with the next, much anticipated, happy funtimes 'Rum Chocolate Souffle' chapter, so I'm posting it on its own instead. It's also incredibly short. Sorry. The next part will be along in the next few days. Also, the one after that will be called 'Butterscotch', so that will hopefully keep you interested ;) Thanks, as always, for following and favoriting and reviewing this story!

_**No fancy foodie photos from the aspiring chef today?** _

Dave spends at least five minutes just staring at his phone in quiet disbelief, sipping his scaldingly hot, exceptionally strong, cup of kiosk coffee. The text comes from Kurt at three thirty-five; long after lunch, and long after he'd written off any chance of actually hearing from Kurt today. He sits up from his slumped position on the damp, cold metal bench by the platform, where he's waiting for the train that will take him back to the city and have him at his therapists office by five, the dense, gnawing misery in his gut being slowly replaced by a strange mix of hope and guilt and terror.

He had been a wreck all day. He'd had virtually no sleep; the thought - the  _knowledge_  - that he'd blown it with Kurt, again, by doing just exactly what he'd promised himself (and his therapist) that he  _wouldn't_  do weighing heavy on his mind. He'd managed to undo so much of the progress he'd made with one stupid, butt-hurt assumption and had spent the whole night mentally kicking his own ass for it.

He sighs and lets his thumb hover of the touchscreen keypad on his phone, trying not to lament the lack of criss-cross kisses at the end of Kurt's message, or the lack of a punctuation-hewn smiley face. After how he'd fucked up, he's lucky, he knows, to have any message from him at all.

**Skipped lunch today, had to make up time on an assignment.**

He decides to leave out any affectionate embellishments of his own in his reply. He also decides to leaves out the part about almost hacking off one of his fingers during his whetstone assignment in knife skills - much to the irritation of Chef Dupuy, his good week quickly turning to shit all round - because he'd been so caught up in his own wretched thoughts, and how he'd spent the remainder of that class and most of his lunch break getting patched up at the nurse's office accompanied by a concerned Jay, whom he had proceeded to share a caffeine-fuelled version of the previous nights events with, which had only made him feel worse (despite Jay's assurance that it was probably be for the best; that someone better, without all the baggage, would be right around the corner), anyway, because, months of therapy or not, he still fucking  _hates_  letting anyone see that he has a vulnerable side.

_**Shame. My eyes are hungry. And you must be too. You have to eat, remember? :p** _

Dave feels his lips twitch towards a smile at Kurt's response - at how he's returning his own past word's of advice - even as he clings to the comforting sting of his own self-pity.  **I'm fine. Had a fashion-friendly black coffee instead. I could probably stand to skip a meal or two, anyway.**

_**You could stand to skip putting yourself down.** _

He can perfectly envisage the frown he knows will be lining Kurt's beautiful face right now and it causes him to wince. He's made that boy frown more than enough times already. He takes another gulp of bitter black coffee and holds it in his mouth, allowing it to sit and scorch his tongue before swallowing. He wishes he could recall the message. He might be clueless, but he knows that self-pity is no way to win back Kurt's…whatever it was he had there, for a while.

 **I'm sorry** , he types and, after several long minutes of contemplating whether he should just hit the  _call_  button instead and actually say the words out loud, hits send, cursing his own cowardice under his breath as he does.

 **About last night,** he adds for clarity when there's no immediate response from Kurt. Ignoring the smarts he feels at the fact he could be apologizing for any number of past misdeeds.

 _ **I had fun**_ , comes Kurt's reply, at last.  _ **Didn't you?**_

 **Of course I did,** he starts to type and pauses to consider his next words. He can feel the unpleasant, anxious throb of his pulse in his neck. He decides to be honest,  **Until I started acting like a jerk.**

_**I can't lie, I would have liked our date to end a little differently, but…there's always tomorrow.** _

His lips curve slowly towards a full blown smile and his heart flutters momentarily towards his throat. He heaves an audible sigh of giddy, elated relief - which earns him an almost comedic  _'_ _what the fuck?'_  look from the grandma now sitting on the bench beside him - as he reads and rereads Kurt's message just to make sure he's not seeing things. It  _was_  a date. He wasn't reading too much into the flirty texts or the deliberate, lingering touches. He was on an actual fucking date with Kurt fucking Hummel - who, by the way, had just confirmed that he'd had  _fun_  on said date and who had, by the way, been the one to ask  _him_  out on that date - and, even though his own petty insecurity and instinct to self-sabotage had very nearly screwed it up, again, it hadn't ruined it completely. Kurt's giving him  _another_  chance. He smiles broadly at the old lady to his left as she scowls sideways at him. Maybe this week can be salvaged after all.

His phone buzzes again _ **. Soufflé 101 is still happening…right?**_

 **Right** , he taps out hurriedly.  **Definitely. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise x**

_**I'll hold you to that ;) See you then x** _

Dave feels suddenly awake,  _alive_ , as his heart beats double time in his chest. He trashes the remainder of his coffee and keeps his phone in his hand, tapping to illuminate the screen every thirty seconds when the light fades to black, just so he can check to make sure he hadn't just imagined the whole exchange in sleep-deprived, caffeine-induced stupor.

He may still be carrying the weight of his -  _their_  - past, and he may have a  _lot_  to discuss with his therapist tonight, but when he boards his train, he feels about fifty pounds lighter. And he's pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact he skipped lunch.


	13. Rum Chocolate Souffle - Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I can't believe how patient you guys have been with me when it comes to this fic. You are all awesome and have no idea how much I appreciate all of your kind words and encouragement. Secondly...don't hate me or anything, but this one kind of turned into a two-parter after all, which means most of the promised happy funtimes are still to come. Sorry! I'll try to get the next part - 'Rum Chococlate Souffle - Execution' - posted very soon! I hope you enjoy this one, even if it does end a little short of where I intended it to at first.

Dave feels his face light up like a beacon as he opens the door and sees Kurt climb the last few steps towards his apartment, face ever so slightly flushed pink from the cold and arms laden with shopping bags.

"Hey," he says and forgoes the temptation of an awkward hello hug in favor of reaching for one of the bags in Kurt's arms, which earns him a warm smile and a "why, thank you" from Kurt as he leads them straight into the kitchen.

He thought he'd felt nervous the last time Kurt was at his place, but now that he's back - and now that Dave knows this is at least  _something_  like a date, and he already has some serious making up to do for the other night - he feels like the butterflies that were previously flapping in his stomach have morphed into raging, ravenous bats.

"I should've come downstairs to help, I didn't think you'd have so much stuff," Dave says and peers tentatively into the Food Emporium bag in his arms.

"It's not all that much, just essentials," Kurt says and deposits his other bags on the counter before stepping forward and reaching into the bag Dave is still somewhat awkwardly holding in one arm. He smiles as he produces, in turn, a bottle of dark rum, two large bars of 75% cocoa chocolate, a box of golden caster sugar, a box of powdered sugar, a stick of unsalted butter, a dozen eggs, a carton of heavy cream and a small sack of plain flour.

"I have some of this stuff here already, you know," Dave tells him, though he already had via text, when Kurt was checking to make sure he had all the necessary accoutriments.

"Better safe than sorry," he replies as he arranges the ingredients by what Dave guesses will be order of use; placing the flour beside the sieve Dave had already left out, the eggs by the electric hand mixer, the chocolate by the makeshift bain marie on the stove.

Dave just watches him, smiling despite his raw nerves, and feels that same thrum in his chest he'd felt last time at how utterly at ease Kurt looks in his cramped little kitchen. When he realises he's in danger of doing nothing but staring, he puts the empty bag aside and reaches for the second one, still untouched where Kurt had left it by the sink.

"Ah-ah-ah! That's for later," Kurt warns and snatches it back out of Dave's hands.

"What's in it?" Dave asks, brow creasing with curious concern.

"You'll see," Kurt says with a sly smile and rolls the top of the paper bag a little to seal it shut before placing it further back on the countertop.

Dave feels a little anticipatory thrill run through his body at the promise.

"Don't look so scared!" Kurt tells him, eyes twinkling with humor as he pulls off his scarf.

"I'm not," he protests, a little weakly, as he tries to school his features, though he can feel his face begin to burn.

"Trust me," Kurt unbuttons his coat and takes a step closer, looking Dave in the eye with an inscrutable expression before saying, softly, "I'm not going to do anything to hurt you."

"I…uh…" he starts to speak without any idea of what he's trying to say. His breath catches in his throat and he dips his head, breaking eye contact with Kurt and biting down on his tongue before he has a chance to say anything he might regret. This all felt so fucking  _easy_  when he was talking to his therapist about it, when he was planning how tonight would go in his mind. His eyes land on the bottle of Old Navy rum and, instead of saying anything he actually  _wants_  to say, he blurts, "I'm not so sure the same can be said for that rum."

Kurt shrugs, still smiling, and takes a step back, "Can't make a  _rum_  chocolate soufflé without the key ingredient. And, sadly, they don't sell it by the tablespoon."

"Didn't they card you?"

"Yes," he nods and and strokes his fingers absently over the neck of the bottle, "but that wasn't a problem. I may only be eighteen but Chaz Donaldsworth is almost twenty-three and knows a thing or two about buying hard liquor."

"Who's Chaz Donaldsworth?" Dave asks, making sure to sound casual so he doesn't come off as pathetically jealous and insecure. Again.

"You've met him before, at Scandals. He's my sometime hard-livin', hard-drinkin' alter-ego."

"Oh,  _that_  guy," Dave grins at both the memory and the relief he feels that Kurt's only talking about his fake ID.

"So, um…" Kurt begins, pausing to shrug off his peacoat. He's clearly gone home to change before coming over and looks more casual than Dave remembers seeing him since, well,  _ever_. He's wearing a tight, deep v-necked blue and grey striped tee under a chunky-knit grey cardigan (and damn, Dave had almost forgotten that Kurt Hummel in a cardigan - of  _all_  things - really fucking works for him), adorned with a tarnished silver penguin brooch, over dark blue skinny jeans. He catches Dave's roving eye before going on, cheeks just as pink as they were when he first came in from the cold, "…your room?"

Dave's heart stills in his chest when he registers only part of the question; at the fact he's been caught openly checking him out. He feels his eyes grow unintentionally wide with combined worry and want.

"I mean," Kurt sucks his bottom lip temporarily into his mouth as he folds his coat over one arm and drapes the strap of his messenger bag loosely over the other, "should I go put these in your room?"

"Oh, yeah, of course, sorry," he mumbles and grabs Kurt's coat, the wool soft and still warm under his fingers, as he turns to hide his own blush and stalks through the small hallway towards his bedroom, Kurt in tow.

~O~

It's all quiet in Dave's room as Kurt rests his messenger bag on the foot of the bed and brings out his 'gay Paris' apron again. Dave feels a sudden air of tension present as Kurt pushes up the sleeves of his cardigan and loops the apron string over his head.

"I never leave home without it," he says in jest when he catches Dave watching him again, and smiles in the way that dimples his cheek, small and lopsided, and makes Dave's heart feel like it might float right out of his body.

He manages to smile back, small and shy and suddenly nervous as he stands face to face with Kurt in his bedroom.  _Now is your chance,_  he thinks, as his conversation with Dr Thomson from the day before comes back to him with painful clarity:  _You're a chef, David - or, at least, you will be - so you know that preparation is just as important as execution in any recipe,_  she'd said.  _And you understand that the right ingredients alone wont guarantee a successful outcome. There are always variables and unless you employ the right method to find out what those variables are, you'll never know what results to expect._

Labored metaphor or not, she was right. Fun though the past few weeks had been, Dave doesn't think his heart, or mind, can take the heady highs and soul-crushing lows of this kind of uncertainty for very much longer.

 _You said that, before, you always put up some kind of front, hid behind a mask. This time, you have to strip away the artifice and be honest about your intentions. And you have to ask the same of him. It may not be comfortable for either of you, but there is no room in your life for this kind of ambiguity, especially, from what you've told me about your past troubles, where Kurt is concerned,_ she'd added, and she was right about that, now he's ready to stop skirting the subject, he assures himself, just as he'd assured his doctor; he's ready to actually  _talk_  to Kurt about…all of this.

He steels himself and looks up to find Kurt looking at him expectantly, brows raised, as he smoothes his hands down the front of his creased apron. "Shall we?"

It's now or never, he knows, and so he swallows the thick lump in his throat and asks, "Can we, uh, talk first…?"

Kurt's smile falters and his eyes grow tentative. "Sure," he says, clasping his hands in front of him.

"I just want to, y'know, clear the air, and apologize for being such a douche the other night, and—"

"David, it's okay," Kurt says, smile replaced by a frown, "you apologized already."

"No, but…I need you to know that I  _know_  I was out of line, and that I had no right to get jealous when I didn't even know if we were really on a date, or that you weren't gonna call that guy, or that you even—"

"Wait," Kurt holds up a silencing finger and blinks wide blue eyes at him, "you didn't think we were on a date?"

"I just…I guess I though it was a possibility, but I wasn't one hundred percent sure." When Kurt doesn't say anything, Dave drops his gaze to the worn patch of carpet under his feet, like the words he's looking for might be hidden in the mottled pattern.

"Did you want it to be?"

"Fuck, Kurt… _yes_ , of course I did," he says, cursing the fact that there's even a doubt in his mind. "I just don't have a great track record when it comes to reading signals."

"Well, I've never been accused of being subtle before," Kurt retorts, a little bemused but not quite bitter-sounding, as he drops to sit on the edge of Dave's bed with a sigh.

"I just, after everything, I thought…" he trails off and heaves an exasperated sigh, "That guy was good-looking, y'know, and  _really_  fucking flirting with you, even though I was right there. He obviously likes you and you and him would make—"

"But I was already  _with_  a good looking, flirty guy who liked me," Kurt cuts him off, lips turning slightly at the corners, although not quite enough to count as a smile, "at least, I thought…you said, back in February, that you thought that you… _liked_  me. And things were different then, you know they were, but I've thought about that a lot since then – I've thought about  _you_  - and here you are being so sweet and inviting me over and sending me borderline pornographic text messages and I thought that maybe you still felt the same way."

Dave's holding his breath, afraid to say or do anything else until he's sure he's taken in everything Kurt has to say.

"About me," Kurt adds for absolute clarity when Dave doesn't speak.

"Yeah. No. You were right, Kurt," he says, all in one stuttering breath, shifting to join Kurt where he sits on the bed, "back on Valentine's Day. I...I only really  _thought_  that I liked you back then."

"Oh," Kurt sighs and his face falls for a fraction of a second before his too-familiarly defensive haughtiness returns, "well, I guess that's—"

"But since we've been talking and texting and whatever else,  _now_  I know that really I do," he says, forcing himself to look into Kurt's eyes, his heart close to bursting as he reaches for Kurt's hand.

"Oh," he utters the short syllable again, but it sounds completely different now. Something in his face softens as he looks at their clasped hands on his lap, before his eyes rise to meet Dave's again.

"I just didn't think I really had a chance with you, after everything I put you through."

"David, I  _like_  you. And I don't want to you to keep beating yourself up about the past," his grip on Dave's hand tightens as he speaks, fast and firm, "I don't want you beating anyone up ever again. As far as I'm concerned, what happened in Lima can stay in Lima. We're not kids anymore and I know that people can change. I know that  _you've_  changed. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"I  _have_  changed, I'm just still so sorry that things weren't different-"

"Do you know why Blaine and I broke up?"

The question takes him by surprise, throws him a little. He feels his eyes narrow as he shakes his head. "No, not really."

"He cheated on me," Kurt says, matter-of-factly. "I'd been out of Lima for all of two weeks. And, I can tell you, that hurt more than any shoulder-check or dumpster toss ever did."

"I'm…shit, Kurt, I can't even…"

"And did you know that my Dad threw Finn out of our house for basically calling me faggy?"

"What?!"

"When him and his mom first moved in with us. It was…he was my  _friend_ , David, and at that time soon-to-be step-brother, but I forgave him, everyone did," he scrunches his eyes closed and sighs in frustration before carrying on. "My point is that pretty much everyone did  _something_  to hurt everyone else back home, as far as a can tell. At least when you hurt me, you apologized for it, you tried to make it up to me. And you weren't already my friend when it happened."

"I guess," Dave says and looks penitently at him, head bowed, as his thumb strokes absently at the base of Kurt's thumb. He gets the point that Kurt is trying to make but part of him still wants to argue that just because they were  _all_  assholes doesn't mean that their actions should be written off. He knows there's no point in pursuing that argument, though, not now, so he stays quiet. It's all out there; beyond wanting to let rip on both Blaine  _and_  Finn, he's not sure what else to say.

"Okay," Kurt barks, eventually, drawing his hand back out of Dave's grasp. "Let's just start over."

Dave can feel himself pull a wary face. Kurt's eyes flutter closed and he sucks in a long, deep breath before making what Dave assumes is meant to be a clean slate gesture. He smiles, then, and thrusts one of his hands towards him, fingers together. "Hi," he says, a little too brightly, "I'm Kurt Hummel."

"Kurt…" Dave says with a mildly embarrassed chuckle.

" _David_ …" he mimics him flatly and bites slowly on his bottom lip, eyes scanning the space around them before looking Dave right in the eye, hand still extended, "I like the guy I've gotten to know, here in New York. And I'd like to get to know him even better. Here and  _now_."

"Okay," he acquiesces, feeling his face light up as he grips Kurt's soft hand in his own and squeezes slightly, glad beyond words that, even if his method was flawed, it seems to have gotten him the right result, this time, "I'd really like that too."


	14. Rum Chocolate Souffle - Execution

A strangely shy silence settles between them as they get to work in the kitchen.

Now that the ambiguity is well and truly gone, that Kurt is still here and he knows that Dave still likes him - and that he somehow, some way, likes him back - he's back to feeling somewhat like a lovesick, dumbstruck idiot. But it's different this time;  _better_ , because now at least he doesn't have to hide it. That fact in and of itself though, the newness of it, brings along its own kind of nervousness, because despite the general sense of euphoria he feels at that fact that Kurt  _likes_  him, wants to get to know him better, wants to date him, he's never actually dated anyone before - not  _really_  - and this is Kurt Hummel, so he really doesn't want to fuck it up.

As Dave begins to break down the bars of dark chocolate into small, easily-meltable chunks, he still feels his skin tingle with the phantom warmth of Kurt's hand on his own. Just minutes before, Kurt had reached out to lead him out of the bedroom and back towards the kitchen, only to pause and ask, mouth creasing in concern as he turned Dave's left hand palm up and eyed the standard issue blue kitchen-safe band-aid at the base of his ring finger and asked,"What happened?"

He'd resisted the urge to pull his hand back in embarrassment, shrugged, and said as casually as he could, "It's nothing, cut it in class yesterday."

"Are you okay?"

"I'll live."

"Good," Kurt had said and eyed him thoughtfully before a smile threatened at the corner of his lips. "Your band-aid matches your shirt."

"Oh yeah," Dave failed to conceal his smile at that. "And yours."

"So it does," Kurt had said, eyes sparkling as he slowly, softly, let their still joined hands drop and strode ahead, pulling Dave the last few steps into the kitchen. "See?" he'd added, without looking back, "We're a good match."

It was enough to unleash some of the giddiness he felt inside and he smiles to himself now as the realisation dawns that he actually welcomes this whole new world of a different kind of worry that's ahead of him. He sneaks a look sideways at Kurt, who's begun separating egg yolks from their whites, tipping the contents back and forth between each half of the shell, with a look of pure concentration on his face.

"What?" Kurt asks, disturbed from his task as he catches the grin currently spreading itself across Dave's face.

"Nothing," he replies, though, for once, does little to hide the joy he feels just to be here, in the moment.

"What is it?" Kurt asks again.

"Nothing!" Dave repeats emphatically, which earns him a narrow-eyed, accusatory look from Kurt. He shrugs, still grinning, and turns to light the burner on the stove under his assembled bain-marie. He can see, from the corner of his eye, Kurt's face break into a slow smile of his own as he cradles a yolk delicately in one half of an eggshell. "I was just admiring your technique," he adds belatedly.

"And so you should," Kurt tells him, tipping the yolk into the smaller of the two bowls, "it's the result of diligence and practice."

"I'll bet."

Kurt turns towards him. "But now it's your turn."

"What?"

"You can't learn by looking alone, practice makes perfect and all that," he says, all business, stepping aside and gesturing to his side of the counter, inviting Dave to take over the task.

He does as Kurt bids, picking up a fresh egg and cracking it gently on the side of the bowl.

"Be careful," Kurt warns and edges closer to Dave as he drops the whole egg into his cupped right hand, depositing the shell on the counter as he proceeds, with a smirk he can't repress, to slowly open his clasped fingers, separating the egg in his own, decidedly messier, way.

He gives Kurt his best wide-eyed, ingenuous look. "Guess I still need a lot of practice."

Kurt makes a small tutting sound, though when Dave looks at him his eyes are creased in amusement. "Just don't let it slip through your fingers."

Dave feels his stomach clench at that, for some reason, and he holds his gaze for a long, electrifying moment before assuring him, "I won't."

~o~O~o~

Even as he feels his nerves begin to settle, there's lingering tension - the good, skin-tingling, increasingly familiar kind, borne of equal parts relief and anticipation - in the air as they prepare the rest of the soufflé batter. Their hands brush accidentally on purpose as flour is measured and sifted; their eyes lock for a little too long as egg whites are whisked to stiff peaks. With the clarity of hindsight, Dave realises that it's actually not too unlike their last time in the kitchen together, when they'd made lamb koftas and humous and Kurt had called him ' _handsome_ ' by return. Only this time, Dave actually has a clue.

And this time, Kurt is  _bossy_  - given charge, he owns the small stretch of kitchen in much the same way that Dave had once seen him own a stage - and Dave has never been happier to take orders. He wants to do this,  _all_  of it, right this time, even if he doesn't always follow this particular chef's instructions to the letter.

"It's supposed to be  _melted_  butter, David," Kurt stops folding the beaten egg whites into the glossy chocolate mixture for a moment to chide him, "and use a pastry brush."

"This'll work just as well, I swear," he assures him, using his fingertips to smear a cube of softened butter around the inner sides of the ramekin, readying it for the soufflé mixture _almost_  to Kurt's specifications. In truth, he enjoys riling Kurt a little, enjoys the playful back-and-forth that his small acts of dissent encourage, but he smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner and, despite his pout, Kurt's glare instantly softens in response. It bolsters Dave's confidence, even as his heart melts to the consistency of the butter he's using. "Besides, I don't actually have a pastry brush, so my fingers will just have to do."

Kurt's look changes again to one of unadulterated incredulity. "How can a student chef  _not_  own a pastry brush?"

"Well, I'm not a pastry chef, so…"

"Really? That's your excuse?" Kurt asks, turning his attention back to the task at hand with an over the top sigh of feigned disappointment.

"That's all I got," Dave says sheepishly, sprinkling sugar into the buttered dish in his hand.

Kurt only laughs in response, soft and melodic, as he moves back towards Dave, dropping the spatula he's been using into the soapy-water filled sink as he goes. "C'est fini!" He announces, and slides the bowl onto the counter beside Dave's buttered dishes.

"Shouldn't we taste it first?"

Kurt blinks at him. "You can taste it when it's done."

"Not that I'm questioning your authority, obviously—"

"Obviously," Kurt intones with a half-suppressed smile.

"—But how do you know it's good if you don't taste it before you serve it?"

"I followed the recipe, which I have had fully committed to memory since junior year."

"But there are always variables," Dave argues, "bigger eggs, sweeter chocolate, whatever. So you should always taste as you go."

Kurt eyes him mischievously for a moment before speaking. "Did they teach you that at the CIA?"

"Yep," Dave nods. "Culinary one-oh-one."

Kurt nods along with him, brows raised in interest. "So they taught you that but not the many and varied uses for a pastry brush?"

"I'm still just a beginner, remember."

"Of course," he shrugs, smirking, "it's just that you have so many of your own unique ideas that I'm apt to forget that little fact."

Dave dips his head to laugh. Texting might be easier but it feels twice as good to be bantering like this with Kurt, to be teased by him, in person.

"Ok then,  _chef_ ," Kurt says, huffing out a little, faux-petulant sigh, "your kitchen, your rules. Let's taste it."

Kurt inches closer to Dave, placing a hand on the mixing bowl to tilt it towards himself as his other hand hovers just above the freshly folded chocolate and egg-white mixture.

"But I don't want to risk knocking the air out of the mix with a spoon," Kurt bites his lip, hiding a self-satisfied smile as his eyes meet Dave's, "so I guess my fingers will just have to do. As long as you don't mind, that is."

Dave shakes his head, "Not at all."

Pleased with that answer, Kurt runs his index finger gingerly around the rim of the bowl, curling it slightly to scoop up a generous amount of the fluffy soufflé batter before raising it swiftly to his mouth and sucking it between his lips, hollowing his cheeks and nodding slightly, moaning his appreciation in a wholly pornographic manner.

Dave feels his world narrow to just the two of them, to all the hidden promise of  _this_  and the possibilities for  _them_.

"Wanna try it?"

The slow, knowing quirk of Kurt's lips, the sound now coming from them, jolts him from his thoughts and he mutters, "Um…" before nodding mutely. He wants, now more than ever, to try  _everything_  with Kurt.

Kurt's smiling coquettishly back at him, fresh color painted high across his cheeks, as he tilts the bowl towards Dave.

"Oh," he says, barely able to mask his disappointment, and raises his right hand, still greased with softened butter, "I have literal butterfingers right now, so…"

"Well, if you don't mind…."

"…But I wouldn't mind if you…"

They both smile as their words match and, to Dave's relief, Kurt says no more, just redips his finger into the chocolate mixture and raises it towards Dave's lips.

"Open wide," he says quietly, breathlessly, before biting down on his bottom lip again.

Dave feels his cheeks burn as his eyes flit momentarily to the bob of Kurt's Adam's apple as he leans in without hesitation, without over-thinking and closes his lips snugly around Kurt's finger; the soufflé mix is lusciously light on his tongue. It's rich with bitter chocolate and has a definite kick of demerera-sweet rum, but it's not that flavor he's interested in. He lets the flat of his tongue press against Kurt's fingertip as the mixture dissolves, resisting with every fibre of his being the urge to  _suck_ ; to let his tongue flick and circle, to explore and exploit this first ( _and god, please don't let it be the last,_ he thinks) taste of Kurt's skin.

"What do you think?" Kurt asks, voice low and soft as he slowly withdraws his finger, his eyes locking with Dave's. It's a loaded question.

Dave swallows thickly.  _Fuck_. He wants more, but he's been there before with Kurt and he doesn't want to push his luck now that he feels like he's finally been blessed with some. "I like it," he says, because whether the question refers to the soufflé recipe or Kurt's finger in his mouth, their not-so-subtly sexual flirting in the kitchen or Kurt just looking at him like  _this_ , the answer is the same. He really fucking likes it. "I like it a lot," he says, for emphasis.

"Good, I do too." Kurt's closed-mouth smile grows wide as he breaks eye contact and turns his attention quickly back to their dessert.

He begins to pour out the batter, dividing it equally between the greased and sugared ramekins. Dave marvels at, after what's he  _thinks_  just happened between them, how sure and steady his hands are as he wipes a clean circle around the rim of each small dish ("So that they rise properly," he explains casually, and if there wasn't a lack of blood flowing to Dave's brain, he's sure he'd find a way to make a joke out of that). His own hands, by contrast, feel shaky with dancing nerves as he washes them clean of butter and sugar and the clamminess of fantasy made flesh, allowing the water to run cold across the pulse points of his wrists by way of cooling and calming him down.

Dave hears the creak of the oven door behind him, the metallic slide of the pan going in and the thud of the door closing again before he turns back towards Kurt who's setting the timer on his phone for 12 minutes.

"So…" he says, lamely.

"So," Kurt picks up where Dave trailed off, sliding his phone back into his back pocket, "now the hard part's done, I think we're ready for the next step."

Dave nods and involuntarily licks his lips. "Which is…?"

Kurt turns and grabs for the extra, previously out-of-bounds grocery bag he'd brought with him, blue eyes alight with something entirely new as he clutches it close to his chest. "I'm just about to show you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lengthy delay in updating - real life keeps getting in the way lately and whenever I do find the time to write it's a struggle. Sorry, too, for being such a tease! I wanted to merge this and the next chapter for this update but it's taking me forever so I thought (eventually) that a little update would be better than no update at all. I hope you enjoy…and I promise that I will try to get the next part to you soon!


	15. Butterscotch

"I have a little activity planned for the wait. Something to further your education."

"Oh yeah?" Dave asks, trying his best to stay nonchalant as his heart begins to rattle in his chest.

Kurt nods. "I thought I'd test your palate for myself."

"Oh yeah?" Dave repeats, because he's too busy trying to keep his breathing steady to formulate sentences right now.

"It'll be good practice," he explains, "And hopefully it'll help you impress your creepy chef professor next time he decides to blindfold and feed you."

Dave detects a hint of something that might be nervousness as Kurt speaks; despite his self-assured demeanour, Dave has noticed that he over-explains himself by way of self defence when he's anxious about what he's saying. It's adorable and strangely comforting to know that, despite his outer confidence, Kurt feels a few butterflies inside sometimes, too.

"And I want you to do me as well," Kurt continues, and pauses to glance from Dave back to the paper shopping bag in his hands as he licks faintly smiling lips, "Test me, too, I mean."

"But I haven't prepared."

"Just use whatever's in your fridge. After all, I'm not a professional, like you," he smiles and turns to place the bag back on the countertop, "but I like the idea of trying it out. You've got me curious to see how good I'd be at recognizing flavors without visual stimuli first."

"Okay then, you're on." Dave feels a little adrenalin rush at the thought of feeding an inquisitive, willing Kurt. "But what's the forfeit?"

"Oh," Kurt turns back to face him, arms folding across his chest, "so it's a competition…"

"Scared?"

"Of a little friendly rivalry?" Kurt takes a step closer to him. "Never. Let's say whoever has the least talented tongue buys dinner next time we go out, deal?"

Dave likes the idea of that next time. A lot. "Deal."

Kurt's grin widens enough to bare his teeth and Dave can see a renewed glimmer of mischief in his eye, nerves all but gone. "Take a seat, I'll be right back."

Dave does as he's told because, well, why wouldn't he? Nothing about what Kurt's proposing sounds unappealing. He pulls out the rickety dining chair from underneath the small kitchen table and drops onto it, rubbing his sweaty palms over the forgiving fabric of his jeans.

"I'll do you first," Kurt says, unintentionally seductively, as he returns from Dave's bedroom, running his slim, striped, no-doubt cashmere, scarf through his hands.

Kurt blindfolds him with his scarf which is deliciously soft against his skin and smells like citrus and rain and the faint peppermint scent of Kurt's hair and…yeah, Dave doesn't want to think too much about how he knows what Kurt's hair smells like.

"Now," he whispers, perilously close the Dave's ear, "just give me one sec to get organized."

There's a soft rustling of paper, a drawer being opened and closed and the clang of silverware. There's a little chopping, the faucet runs, and there's the twist and pop of something being opened. Dave feels a spike of excitement, another little adrenalin rush at being sightless and masked, completely and utterly at Kurt's mercy as he waits…and well, that's a new one on him. He tries to put the additional little thrill he feels at that though on lockdown until later.

"Open wide," Kurt sing-songs before long, and there's a gentle, fleeting hand to guide his jaw as he opens his mouth, the hard, cold edge of a spoon failing to glide slowly over his teeth, "Oops, sorry," Kurt giggles and the sound makes Dave smile before there's a small amount of something soft and grainy on his tongue, clinging a little to the edge of his top lip and, suddenly, it burns; he can feel it send a tingling heat along the top of his palate and there's a fiery pop at the back of his sinuses as he swallows and coughs a little, though it's not unpleasant, or even unfamiliar, just unexpected.

"Easy," he says with a smirk, the memory of their recent dinner date (because it turns out that's exactly what it was) still very much fresh on his mind, "wasabi."

"Correct!" Kurt chants and there's a scrape of a chair being moved, the creak of his weight on it and then their knees are touching as Kurt takes first the empty spoon and then Dave's hand and closes his fingers gently around a cool glass, "Now drink some water before the next one."

Dave complies and feels for Kurt's hand to give the water back, struck by how odd and liberating it is to just reach out from the dark and  _touch_.

"Ready?"

Dave nods and licks his lips. Kurt's hand is still clutching his wrist as the next spoon finds it's way into his mouth, depositing a slice of something contrastingly cool onto his tongue. It takes just a second to identify the taste and texture; it's crunchy and clean and a little bit watery at he chews. He swallows and, with confidence, answers, "Cucumber."

"Clever boy," Kurt purrs and strokes his hand down over Dave's, up and away to retrieve the next item. "Next?"

Dave nods, and there's a cold spoon pressing at the seam of his lips immediately. This time, it's something soft and sweet and tart; at once sharp and smooth on his palate. It instantly reminds him of the limoncello tiramisu Kurt had brought with him last time, and he lets the flavor linger on his tongue for a second to make sure there's no accompanying marscapone creaminess before he answers, "This one's just lemon curd, right?"

"Too easy, huh?" Kurt says and guides the water glass back into Dave's hand. "It's about to get harder," he adds, voice low and mock-serious as his fingers, again, stroke lightly over Dave's, leaving him in absolutely no doubt that  _something_  is about to get hard.

"Bring it on," Dave whispers, before Kurt's feeding him the next surprise. This one is solid and dry on his tongue and at first thinks it's some kind of dried fruit until he presses it with his tongue and it spreads, surprisingly softly, and releases an almost-sweet, mellow umami flavor that's not quite familiar but not quite new, either.

"Struggling, chef?"

Dave snickers and shakes his head before rolling the remainder of the mystery ingredient around on his tongue. There's an earthiness there, a hint of garlic, and….yeah. He's got it. And this, too, is something that makes him think of Kurt; of reconnecting with him at Wholefoods just a few, life-altering weeks ago. "Black garlic?"

"Damnit," Kurt sighs in faux-annoyance, "I thought you were bad at this?"

Dave shrugs. "Guess I just had a bad teacher."

"I'll go with that," Kurt says and there's a little more rustling, a bewildering click, and the mystery of it - of  _all_  of this night - makes his nerves tingle pleasantly.

Next, there's a cube of something crumbly, creamy but briny almost, and delicious as it dissolves in his mouth. "Greek feta?"

"Ding, ding, ding!" Kurt chirps and there's the ghost of a touch across his bottom lip before Kurt's urging him to take another sip of water. "Ready for more?"

He nods again before Kurt guides the spoon carefully back into his mouth, allowing him to tongue at something smooth and heavy. It's cloyingly rich, buttery with a bitter undertone and a hint of artificial-tasting citrus. He grimaces, "Dude, whatever this is, it isn't good."

"I know, I'm sorry," Kurt laughs, gleeful in apology, "but I just couldn't resist."

Dave lets his teeth scrape along the surface of his tongue, trying to get rid of the clinging texture. His first guess is that it's fabric conditioner or face cream or something else not fit for human consumption but then, as he sips on more water, glad to wash the taste away, and Kurt says, wicked smile clear even without seeing his face, "I haven't perfected my own version yet, so…this had to do." Dave knows just what it is.

"Is that pre-made hollandaise? Like, from a jar?"

"Right again," Kurt says and then, suddenly lower, closer, adds, "you are frustratingly good at this."

The connection between  _them_  and everything Kurt's tested him with so far is achingly clear and the thought Kurt has put into it makes him immeasurably happy.  _So are you_ , he thinks, but he doesn't dare voice it. Not yet. "I've had a little practice," he says instead.

"Okay, last one. And this one'll be better, I promise," Kurt tells him as he lays gentle fingers on Dave's forearm.

With that, Dave can't help but believe him. "Okay."

Kurt's close enough that he can feel his breath, hot and moist, across his skin as he says, "Final one, open up." Then, there's the brush of fingers again, this time on his lips as Kurt pushes something hard between them. Dave sucks it in eagerly, closes his lips around it and finds the golden, caramel flavor instantly sweet and recognizable. He smiles around the hard candy before pushing it to the side of his cheek to speak.

"This one's easy, it's butterscotch."

He hears Kurt's breath hitch when he says it, and he reaches for the scarf, looking forward to having his sight back as he becomes too keenly aware of the effect Kurt has on his other senses.

Kurt's hand stills his, though, brings it back down into his lap and doesn't let go, then there's his breath again, and the subtly obscene sound of wet lips parting, and Kurt is whispering, "Your favorite, right?"

Before he can reply there's a hot, firm pressure against his lips and he can  _feel_  Kurt make a little muffled gasping sound in the back of his throat before he realises why.

They're kissing. And he's not really sure why or how or even  _who,_ but he's not complaining as he gasps, almost swallowing the butterscotch candy whole as it's sucked momentarily to the back of his throat before he manages to manoeuvre it back into his cheek, out of the way. He feels Kurt's hand cup his jaw, gentle fingers teasing under the edge of his makeshift blindfold, as his stomach clenches, saliva pools in his mouth, and he realises that, this time, Kurt is  _definitely_  the one initiating the kiss.

His lips part to reciprocate and he finds his bottom lip instantly captured between Kurt's, causing him to moan at the sensation, at the overwhelming, all-encompassing heat he feels bloom beneath his skin as Kurt's tongue slides in to taste him. His empty hands flex. He wants…fuck, his senses are flooded, he just  _wants._ He returns the kiss hungrily, desperate for more, as he reaches out to seek warm, soft skin just as a sobering sound chimes beside them, and Kurt pulls back with a little pant, followed by a huff of stuttering breath that's cool against Dave's lips, breaking the spell.

Dave half-laughs suddenly nervous to be back to reality after the best, fastest, twelve minutes of his life so far. He pulls the scarf down away from his eyes slowly and mutters, "Saved by the bell," as he blinks at the sight of the boy in front of him; lips parted, eyes still dark with promise.

Kurt shakes his head as he shuts off the alarm on his phone and leans a little closer. "Delayed by the bell," he says and his lips curve sideways into a provocative smile, " _postponed_  by the bell."

Dave sucks on the butterscotch candy still in his mouth and swallows hard. The way Kurt is looking at him is entirely new, and enthralling. His pupils are blown wide, face still flushed and his lips are rosy pink and shiny as the muted light catches the moisture leftover from their kiss. That's lust, he thinks with wonder as Kurt pulls back. Lust and maybe, just maybe, a hint of something more. He bows his head and licks the remaining, intoxicating flavor of Kurt from his lips (his new favorite flavor, for sure) before swallowing the candy and pulling the scarf away from his neck and through his hands as his eyes follow Kurt as he stands and turns towards the stove.

"But I didn't get to do you," he protests, plaintively.

Kurt's eyes widen a little and so does his smile. "Next time, then."

"Next time," Dave repeats, unable to suppress his grin.

"Well, here goes," Kurt says as he dons an oven mitt and slowly cracks open the oven door, "cross your fingers."

"Did it rise?" Dave asks and, as he's forced to adjust his pants when he stands to retrieve the plates Kurt had left out for them, instantly sees the error of his words. "I mean…"

Kurt eyes him with one eyebrow cocked, oven-mitted hand still on the oven door, "Oh, I know what you  _mean_ , David," he cuts in with a little rumble of laughter and bends to retrieve the would-be risen soufflés from the oven, giving Dave a perfect view of his fucking perfect ass as he turns to look back over his shoulder and adds with a smirk, "and the answer is  _yes_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Finally, after more than a year since I began writing this story, they kissed! This chapter was supposed to bring their evening to a close, but I just have to extend it by one more little chapter which will bring not just their evening but the first part, or arc, of this story to a close, too. Be warned, my plans for this fic are still many and as yet unending! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, it means a lot *big butterscotch kisses to you all*


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